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XASTILIAN  DAYS' 


JOHN   HAY 


#S... 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1871  and  1899, 
By  JOHN  HAY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


^13S.1Z 


•  *  \  -•  •     •  •• 


NOTE  TO   REVISED  EDITION. 


The  Publishers  of  this  volume,  desiring  to  print 
it  in  an  improved  form,  have  asked  me  to  write 
something  by  way  of  preface  or  supplement  to 
the  new  edition.  After  some  deliberation  I  have 
found  myself  unable  to  comply  with  this  request. 
These  pages  were  written  in  the  first  half  of  the 
year  1870,  a  time  of  intense  interest  and  impor- 
tance, to  Spain.  I  left  Madrid  in  the  memorable 
August  of  that  year,  passing  through  Paris  when 
that  beautiful  city  was  lying  in  the  torpor  which 
followed  the  wild  excitement  of  the  declaration 
of  war,  and  preceded  the  fury  of  despair  that 
came  with  the  catastrophe  of  Sedan.  I  then  in- 
tended to  return  to  Spain  before  long  ;  and,  in 
fact,  few  years  have  pa.  ed  since  that  time  in 
which  I  have  not  nourished  the  dream  of  revisit- 
ing the  Peninsula  and  its  scenes  of  magic  and 
romance.  But  many  cares  and  duties  have  inter- 
vened ;  I  have  never  gone  back  to  Spain,  and  I 
have  arrived  at  an  age  when  I  begin  to  doubt  if  I 
have  any  castles  there  requiring  my  attention. 


373222 


IV  PREFACE. 

I  have  therefore  nothing  to  add  to  this  little 
book.  Reading  it  again  after  the  lapse  of  many 
years,  I  find  much  that  might  be  advantageously 
modified  or  omitted.  But  as  its  merits,  if  it  have 
any,  are  merely  those  of  youth,  so  also  are  its 
faults,  and  they  are  immanent  and  structural  ; 
they  cannot  be  amended  without  tearing  the  book 
to  pieces.  For  this  reason  1  have  confined  myself 
to  the  correction  of  the  most  obvious  and  flagrant 
errors,  and  can  only  hope  the  kindly  reader  will 
pass  over  with  an  indulgent  smile  the  rapid  judg- 
ments, the  hot  prejudices,  the  pitiless  condemna- 
tions, the  lyric  eulogies,  born  of  an  honest  enthu- 
siasm and  unchecked  by  the  reserve  which  comes 
of  Hge  and  experience.  T  venture  to  hope,  though 
with  some  anxiety  and  uncertainty,  that  the  hon- 
est enthusiasm  may  itself  be  recognized,  as  well  as 
the  candor  which  the  writer  tried  to  preserve  in 
speaking  of  things  which  powerfully  appealed  to 
his  loves  and  his  hates. 

I  therefore  commit  this  book  to  the  public  once 
more  with  its  imperfections  on  its  head  ;  with  its 
prophecies  unfulfilled,  its  hopes  baffled,  its  obser- 
vations in  many  instances  rendered  obsolete  by 
the  swift  progress  of  events.  A  changed  Europe 
- — far  different  from  that  which  I  traversed  twenty 
years  ago  —  suffers  in  a  new  fever-dream  of  war 
and  revolution  north   of    the  Pyrenees ;  and  be- 


PREFACE.  -V 

yond  those  picturesque  mountains  the  Spanish 
monarchy  enjoys  a  new  lease  of  life  by  favor  of 
circumstances  which  demand  a  chronicler  of  more 
leisure  than  myself.  I  must  leave  what  I  wrote  1 
in  the  midst  of  the  stirring  scenes  of  the  inter- 
regnum between  the  secular  monarchy  and  the 
short-lived  Republic  —  whose  advent  I  foresaw, 
but  whose  sudden  fall  was  veiled  from  my  san- 
guine vision  —  without  defense  or  apology,  claim- 
ing only  that  it  was  written  in  good  faith,  from 
a  heart  filled  with  passionate  convictions  and  an 
ardent  love  and  devotion  to  what  is  best  in  Spain. 
I  recorded  what  I  saw,  and  my  eyes  were  bet- 
ter then  than  now.  I  trust  I  have  not  too  often 
spoken  amiss  of  a  people  whose  art,  whose  liter- 
ature, whose  language,  and  whose  character  com- 
pelled my  highest  admiration,  and  with  whom  I 
enjoyed  friendships  which  are  among  the  dearest  j 
recollections  of  my  life.  ^ 

JOHN  HAY. 

Lafayette  Squabe,  Washington,  April,  1890. 


CONTENTS. 


PAcn 

Madrid  al  Fresco 1 

Spanish  Living  and  Dyinq 27 

Influence  or  Tradition  in  Spanish  Life    ...  49 

Tauromachy 74 

Red-Letter  Days 98 

An  Hour  with  the  Painters 121 

A  Castle  in  the  Air 158 

The  City  of  the  Visigoths 182  i/ 

The  Escorial 213 

A  Miracle  Play 233 

An  Evening  with  Ghosts 251 

Proverbial  Philosophy 267 

The  Cradle  and  Grave  of  Cervantes       .        .        .  282 

A  Field  Night  in  the  Cortes        .               .        .  313 

The  Moral  of  Spanish  Politics         ....  347 

The  Bourbon  Duel 371 

Necessity  of  the  Republic     .        .        ;        .        .  389 


^im 


CASTILlAN  DATS 


MADEID  AL  FEESCO. 

Madmd  is  a  capital  with  malice  aforethought. 
Usually  the  seat  of  government  is  established  in 
some  important  town  from  the  force  of  circumstan- 
ces. Some  cities  have  an  attraction  too  powerful 
for  the  Court  to  resist.  There  is  no  capital  of  Eng- 
land possible  but  London.  Paris  is  the  heart  of 
France.  Kome  is  the  predestined  capital  of  Italy 
in  spite  of  the  wandering  flirtations  its  varying  gov- 
ernments in  different  centuries  have  carried  on  with 
Bavenna,  .or  Naples,  or  Florence.  You  can  imagine 
no  Eesidenz  for  Austria  but  the  Kaiserstadt,  —  the 
gemlithlich  Wien.  But  there  are  other  capitals  where 
men  have  arranged  things  and  consequently  bungled 
them.  The  great  Czar  Peter  slapped  his  Imperial 
Court  down  on  the  marshy  shore  of  the  Neva, 
where  he  could  look  westward  into  civilization 
and  watch  with  the  jealous  eye  of  an  intelligent 
barbarian  the  doings  of  his  betters.  Washington 
is  another  specimen  of  the  cold-blooded  handiwork 
of  the  capital  builders.     We  shall  think  nothing 


2  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

less  of  the  clarum  et  venerahile  nomen  of  its  founder 
if  we  admit  he  was  human,  and  his  wishing  the 
seat  of  government  nearer  to  Mount  Vernon  than 
Mount  Washington  sufficiently  proves  this.  But 
Madrid  more  plainly  than  any  other  capital  shows 
the  traces  of  having  been  set  down  and  properly 
brought  up  by  the  strong  hand  of  a  paternal  gov- 
ernment; and  like  children  with  whom  the  same 
regimen  has  been  followed,  it  presents  in  its  matu- 
rity a  curious  mixture  of  lawlessness  and  insipidity. 
Its  greatness  was  thrust  upon  it  by  Philip  II. 
Some  premonitory  symptoms  of  the  dangerous 
honor  that  awaited  it  had  been  seen  in  preceding 
reigns.  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  occasionally  set  up 
their  pilgrim  tabernacle  on  the  declivity  that  over- 
hangs the  Manzanares.  Charles  V.  found  the  thin, 
fine  air  comforting  to  his  gouty  articulations.  But 
Philip  II.  made  it  his  court.  It  seems  hard  to  con- 
ceive how  a  king  who  had  his  choice  of  Lisbon, 
with  its  glorious  harbor  and  unequalled  communi- 
cations ;  Seville,  with  its  delicious  climate  and  nat- 
ural beauty ;  and  Salamanca  and  Toledo,  with  their 
wealth  of  tradition,  splendor  of  architecture,  and 
renown  of  learning,  should  have  chosen  this  barren 
mountain  for  his  home,  and  the  seat  of  his  Empire. 
But  when  we  know  this  monkish  king  we  wonder 
no  longer.  He  chose  Madrid  simply  because  it  was 
cheerless  and  bare  and  of  ophthalmic  ugliness. 
The  royal  kill-joy  delighted  in  having  the  dreariest 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  3 

capital  on  earth.  After  a  while  there  seemed  to 
him  too  much  life  and  humanity  about  Madrid,  and 
he  built  the  Escorial,  the  grandest  ideal  of  majesty 
and  ennui  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  This  vast 
mass  of  granite  has  somehow  acted  as  an  anchor 
that  has  held  the  capital  fast  moored  at  Madrid 
through  aU  succeeding  years. 

It  was  a  dreary  and  somewhat  shabby  court  for 
many  reigns.  The  great  kings  who  started  the 
Austrian  dynasty  were  too  busy  in  their  world-con- 
quest to  pay  much  attention  to  beautifying  Madrid, 
and  their  weak  successors,  sunk  in  ignoble  pleas- 
ures, had  not  energy  enough  to  indulge  the  royal 
folly  of  building.  When  the  Bourbons  came  down 
from  France  there  was  a  little  flurry  of  construction 
imder  Philip  V.,  but  he  never  finished  his  palace  in 
the  Plaza  del  Oriente,  and  was  soon  absorbed  in 
constructing  his  castle  in  cloud-land  on  the  heights 
of  La  Granja.  The  only  real  ruler  the  Bourbons  ever 
gave  to  Spain  was  Charles  III.,  and  to  him  Madrid 
owes  aU  that  it  has  of  architecture  and  civic  im- 
provement. Seconded  by  his  able  and  liberal  min- 
ister. Count  Aranda,  who  was  educated  abroad,  and 
so  free  from  the  trammels  of  Spanish  ignorance  and 
superstition,  he  rapidly  changed  the  ignoble  town 
into  something  like  a  city.  The  greater  portion  of 
the  public  buildings  date  from  this  active  and  benefi- 
cent reign.  It  was  he  who  laid  out  the  walks  and 
promenades  which  give  to  Madrid  almost  its  only 


'4  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

r^ 

'  outward  attraction.  The  Picture  Gallery,  which  is 
the  shrine  of  all  pilgrims  of  taste,  was  built  by  him 
for  a  Museum  of  Natural  Science.  In  nearly  all 
that  a  stranger  cares  to  see,  Madrid  is  not  an  older 

/city  than  Boston. 

fl  There  is  consequently  no  glory  of  tradition  here. 
There  are  no  cathedrals.  There  are  no  ruins.  There 
is  none  of  that  mysterious  and  haunting  memory 
that  peoples  the  air  with  spectres  in  quiet  towns 
like  Eavenna  and  Nuremberg.  And  there  is  little 
of  that  vast  movement  of  humanity  that  possesses , 
and  bewilders  you  in  San  Francisco  and  New  York. 
Madrid  is  larger  than  Chicago;  but  Chicago  is  a 

>\  great  city  and  Madrid  a  great  village.  The  pulsa- 
tions of  life  in  the  two  places  resemble  each  other 
no  more  than  the  beating  of  Dexter's  heart  on  the 
home-stretch  is  like  the  rising  and  falling  of  an 
oozy  tide  in  a  marshy  inlet. 

There  is  nothing  indigenous  in  Madrid.  There 
is  no  marked  local  color.  It  is  a  city  of  Castile, 
but  not  a  Castilian  city,  like  Toledo,  which  girds  its 
graceful  waist  with  the  golden  Tagus,  or  like  Sego- 
via, fastened  to  its  rock  in  hopeless  shipwreck. 

But  it  is  not  for  this  reason  destitute  of  an  inter- 
est of  its  own.  By  reason  of  its  exceptional  his- 
tory and  character  it  is  the  best  point  in  Spain  to 
study  Spanish  life.  It  has  no  distinctive  traits 
itself,  but  it  is  a  patchwork  of  all  Spain.  Every 
province  of  the  Peninsula  sends  a  contingent  to  its 


MADRID  AL  FRESCO.  5 

population.  The  Gallicians  hew  its  wood  and  draw 
its  water ;  the  Asturian  women  nurse  its  babies  at 
their  deep  bosoms,  and  fill  the  promenades  with 
their  brilliant  costumes ;  the  Valentians  carpet  its 
halls  and  quench  its  thirst  with  orgeat  of  chufas  ; 
in  every  street  you  shall  see  the  red  bonnet  and 
sandalled  feet  of  the  Catalan;  in  every  cafe,  the 
shaven  face  and  rat-tail  chignon  of  the  Majo 
of  Andalusia.  If  it  have  no  character  of  its  own, 
it  is  a  mirror  where  all  the  faces  of  the  Peninsula 
may  sometimes  be  seen.  It  is  like  the  mocking- 
bird of  the  West,  that  has  no  song  of  its  own,  and 
yet  makes  the  woods  ring  with  every  note  they  have 
ever  heard. 

Though  Madrid  gives  a  picture  in  little  of  all 
Spain,  it  is  not  all  Spanish.  It  has  a  large  foreign 
population.  Not  only  its  immediate  neighbors,  the 
French,  are  here  in  great  numbers,  —  conquering  so 
far  their  repugnance  to  emigration,  and  living  as 
gayly  as  possible  in  the  midst  of  traditional  hatred, 
—  but  there  are  also  many  Germans  and  English 
in  business  here,  and  a  few  stray  Yankees  have 
pitched  their  tents,  to  reinforce  the  teeth  of  the 
Dons,  and  to  sell  them  ploughs  and  sewing-ma- 
chines. Its  railroads  have  waked  it  up  to  a  new 
life,  and  the  Eevolution  has  set  free  the  thought  of 
its  people  to  an  extent  which  would  have  been 
hardly  credible  a  few  years  ago.  Its  streets  swarm 
with  newsboys  and  strangers,  —  the  agencies  that 


6  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

are  to  bring  its  people  into  the  movement  of  the 
age. 

It  has  a  superb  Opera  House,  which  might  as 
well  be  in  Naples,  for  all  the  national  character  it 
has ;  the  Court  Theatre,  where  not  a  word  of  Cas- 
tilian  is  ever  heard,  nor  a  strain  of  Spanish  music. 
Even  cosmopolite  Paris  has  her  Grand  Opera  sung 
in  French,  and  easy-going  Vienna  insists  that  Don 
Juan  shall  make  love  in  German.  The  champagny 
strains  of  Offenbach  are  heard  in  every  town  of 
Spain  oftener  than  the  ballads  of  the  country.  In 
Madrid  there  are  more  ;pilluelos  who  whistle  Bu  qui 
s'avance  than  the  Hymn  of  Eiego.  The  Cancan 
has  taken  its  place  on  the  boards  of  every  stage  in 
the  city,  apparently  to  stay ;  and  the  exquisite  jota 
and  cachucha  are  giving  way  to  the  bestialities  of  the 
Casino  Cadet.  It  is  useless  perhaps  to  fight  against 
that  hideous  orgie  of  vulgar  Menads  which  in  these 
late  years  has  swept  over  all  nations,  and  stung  the 
loose  world  into  a  tarantula  dance  from  the  Golden 
Horn  to  the  Golden  Gate.  It  must  have  its  day 
and  go  out;  and  when  it  has  passed,  perhaps  we 
may  see  that  it  was  not  so  utterly  causeless  and 
irrational  as  it  seemed ;  but  that,  as  a  young  Amer- 
ican poet  has  impressively  said,  "Paris  was  pro- 
claiming to  the  world  in  it  somewhat  of  the  pent- 
up  fire  and  fury  of  her  nature,  the  bitterness  of  her 
heart,  the  fierceness  of  her  protest  against  spiritual 
and  political  repression.      It  is   an  execration  in 


MADEID   AL   FRESCO.  7 

rhythm,  —  a  dance  of  fiends,  which  Paris  has  in- 
vented to  express  in  license  what  she  lacks  in 
liberty." 

This  diluted  European,  rather  than  Spanish,  spirit 
may  be  seen  in  most  of  the  amusements  of  the 
politer  world  of  Madrid.  They  have  classical  con- 
certs in  the  circuses  and  popular  music  in  the  open 
air.  The  theatres  play  translations  of  French  plays, 
which  are  pretty  good  when  they  are  in  prose,  and 
pretty  dismal  when  they  are  turned  into  verse,  as 
is  more  frequent,  for  the  Spanish  mind  delights  in 
the  jingle  of  rhyme.  The  fine  old  Spanish  drama^ 
is  vanishing  day  by  day.  The  masterpieces  of 
Lope  and  Calderon,  which  inspired  all  subsequent 
playwriting  in  Europe,  have  sunk  almost  utterly 
into  oblivion.  The  stage  is  flooded  with  the  wash- 
ings of  the  Boulevards.  Bad  as  the  translations  \ 
are,  the  imitations  are  worse.  The  original  plays 
produced  by  the  geniuses  of  the  Spanish  Academy, 
for  which  they  are  crowned  and  sonneted  and  pen- 
sioned, are  of  the  kind  upon  which  we  are  told  that 
gods  and  men  and  columns  look  austerely. 

This  infection  of  foreign  manners  has  completely 
gained  and  now  controls  what  is  called  the  best 
society  of  Madrid.  A  soiree  in  this  circle  is  like 
an  evening  in  the  corresponding  grade  of  position 
in  Paris  or  Petersburg  or  New  York  in  all  external 
characteristics.  The  toilets  are  by  Worth ;  the 
beauties  are  coiffed  by  the  deft  fingers  of  Parisian 


8  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

tiring- women ;  the  men  wear  the  penitential  garb 
of  Poole ;  the  music  is  by  Gounod  and  Verdi ; 
Strauss  inspires  the  rushing  waltzes,  and  the  mar- 
ried people  walk  through  the  quadrilles  to  the 
measures  of  Blue  Beard  and  Fair  Helen,  so  sug- 
gestive of  conjugal  rights  and  duties.  As  for  the 
suppers,  the  trail  of  the  Neapolitan  serpent  is  over 
them  all.  Honest  eating  is  a  lost  art  among  the 
effete  denizens  of  the  Old  World.  Tantalizing 
ices,  crisped  shapes  of  baked  nothing,  arid  sand- 
wiches, and  the  feeblest  of  sugary  punch,  are  the 
only  supports  exhausted  nature  receives  for  the 
shock  of  the  cotillon.  I  remember  the  stern  reply 
of  a  friend  of  mine  when  I  asked  him  to  go  with 
me  to  a  brilliant  reception,  —  "  No !  Man  liveth 
not  by  biscuit-glace  alone  ! "  His  heart  was  heavy 
for  the  steamed  cherry-stones  of  Harvey  and  the 
stewed  terrapin  of  Augustin. 

The  speech  of  the  gay  world  has  almost  ceased 
to  be  national.  Every  one  speaks  French  sufficient- 
ly for  all  social  requirements.  It  is  sometimes  to 
be  doubted  whether  this  constant  use  of  a  foreign 
language  in  official  and  diplomatic  circles  is  a  cause 
or  effect  of  paucity  of  ideas.  It  is  impossible  for  any 
one  to  use  another  tongue  with  the  ease  and  grace 
with  which  he  could  use  his  own.  You  know  how 
tiresome  the  most  charming  foreigners  are  when 
they  speak  English.  A  fetter-dance  is  always  more 
curious  than  graceful.     Yet  one  who  has  nothing  to 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  9 

say  can  say  it  better  in  a  foreign  language.  If  you 
must  speak  nothing  but  phrases,  Ollendorff's  are  as 
good  as  any  one's.  Where  there  are  a  dozen  people 
all  speaking  French  equally  badly,  each  one  imag- 
ines there  is  a  certain  elegance  in  the  hackneyed 
forms.  I  know  of  no  other  way  of  accounting  for 
the  fact  that  clever  people  seem  stupid  and  stupid 
people  clever  when  they  speak  French.  This  facile 
language  thus  becomes  the  missionary  of  mental 
equality,  —  the- principles  of  '89  applied  to  con- 
versation. All  men  are  equal  before  the  phrase- 
book. 

But  this  is  hypercritical  and  ungrateful.  We  do 
not  go  to  balls  to  hear  sermons  nor  discuss  the 
origin  of  matter.  If  the  young  grandees  of  Spain 
are  rather  weaker  in  the  parapet  than  is  allowed  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  if  the  old  boys  are  more 
frivolous  than  is  becoming  to  age,  and  both  more 
ignorant  of  the  day's  doings  than  is  consistent  with 
even  their  social  responsibilities,  in  compensation 
the  women  of  this  circle  are  as  pretty  and  amia- 
ble as  it  is  possible  to  be  in  a  fallen  world.  The 
foreigner  never  forgets  those  piquant  mutines  faces 
of  Andalusia  and  those  dreamy  eyes  of  Malaga,  — 
the  black  masses  of  Moorish  hair  and  the  blond 
glory  of  those  graceful  heads  that  trace  their  de- 
scent from  Gothic  demigods.  They  were  not  very 
learned  nor  very  witty,  but  they  were  knowing 
enough  to  trouble  the  soundest  sleep.  Their  voices 
1* 


10  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

• 

could  interpret  the  sublimest  ideas  of  Mendelssohn. 
They  knew  sufficiently  of  lines  and  colors  to  dress 
themselves  charmingly  at  small  cost,  and  their  little 
feet  were  well  enough  educated  to  bear  them  over 
the  polished  floor  of  a  ball-room  as  lightly  as 
swallows'  wings.  The  flirting  of  their  intelligent 
fans,  the  flashing  of  those  quick  smiles  where  eyes, 
teeth,  aild  lips  all  did  their  dazzling  duty,  and  the 
satin  twinkling  of  those  neat  boots  in  the  waltz, 
are  harder  to  forget  than  things  better  worth  re- 
membering. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  Eevolutionary  regime 
there  have  been  serious  schisms  and  heart-burnings 
in  the  gay  world.  The  people  of  the  old  situation 
assumed  that  the  people  of  the  new  were  rebels  and 
traitors,  and  stopped  breaking  bread  with  them. 
But  in  spite  of  this  the  palace  and  the  ministry  of 
war  were  gay  enough,  —  for  Madrid  is  a  city  of  of- . 
fice-holders,  and  the  White  House  is  always  easy  to 
fill,  even  if  two  thirds  of  the  Senate  is  uncongenial. 
The  principal  fortress  of  the  post  was  the  palace  of 
the  spirituelle  and  hospitable  lady  whose  society 
name  is  Duchess  of  Penaranda,  but  who  is  better 
known  as  the  mother  of  the  Empress  of  the  French. 
Her  salon  was  the  weekly  lendezvous  of  the  irrec- 
oncilable adherents  of  the  House  of  Bourbon,  and 
the  aristocratic  beauty  that  gathered  there  was  too 
powerful  a  seduction  even  for  the  young  and  hope- 
ful partisans  of  the  powers  that  be.     There  was 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  11 

nothing  exclusive  about  this  elegant  hospitality. 
Beauty  and  good  manners  have  always  been  a  pass- 
port there.  I  have  seen  a  proconsul  of  Prim  talk- 
ing with  a  Carlist  leader,  and  a  fiery  young  democrat 
dancing  with  a  countess  of  Castile. 

But  there  is  another  phase  of  society  in  Madrid 
which  is  altogether  pleasing,  —  far  from  the  domain 
of  politics  or  public  affairs,  where  there  is  no  pre- 
tension or  luxury  or  conspiracy,  —  the  old-fashioned 
Tertulias  of  Spain.  -  There  is  nowhere  a  kindlier 
and  more  unaffected  sociableness.  The  leading 
families  of  each  little  circle  have  one  evening  a 
week  on  which  they  remain  at  home.  Nearly  all 
their  friends  come  in  on  that  evening.  There  is 
conversation  and  music  and  dancing.  The  young 
girls  gather  together  in  little  groups,  —  not  con- 
fined under  the  jealous  guard  of  their  mothers  or 
chaperons^  —  and  chatter  of  the  momentous  events 
of  the  week,  —  their  dresses,  their  beaux,  and  their 
books.  Around  these  compact  formations  of  love- 
liness skirmish  light  bodies  of  the  male  enemy,  but 
rarely  effect  a  lodgement.  A  word  or  a  smile  is  mo- 
mently thrown  out  to  meet  the  advance ;  but  the 
long,  desperate  battle  of  flirtation,  which  so  often 
takes  place  in  America  in  discreet  comers  and  out- 
lying boudoirs,  is  never  seen  in  this  well-organized 
society.  The  mothers  in  Israel  are  ranged  for  the 
evening  around  the  walls  in  comfortable  chairs, 
which   they  never   leave;   and   the   colonels   and 


12  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

generals  and  chiefs  of  administration,  who  form 
the  bulk  of  all  Madrid  gatherings,  are  gravely  smok- 
ing in  the  library  or  playing  interminable  games  of 
tresillon,  seasoned  with  temperate  denunciations  of 
the  follies  of  the  time. 

Nothing  can  be  more  engaging  than  the  tone  of 
perfect  ease  and  cordial  courtesy  which  pervades 
these  family  festivals.  It  is  here  that  the  Spanish 
character  is  seen  in  its  most  attractive  light.  Near- 
ly everybody  knows  French,  but  it  is  never  spoken. 
The  exquisite  Castilian,  softened  by  its  graceful 
diminutives  into  a  rival  of  the-  Italian  in  tender 
melody,  is  the  only  medium  of  conversation ;  it  is 
rare  that  a  stranger  is  seen,  but  if  he  is,  he  must 
learn  Spanish  or  be  a  wet  blanket  forever. 

You  will  often  meet,  in  persons  of  wealth  and 
distinction,  an  easy  degenerate  accent  in  Spanish, 
strangely  at  variance  with  their  elegance  and  cul- 
ture. These  are  Creoles  of  the  Antilles,  and  they 
form  one  of  the  most  valued  and  popular  elements 
of  society  in  the  capital.  There  is  a  gallantry  and 
dash  about  the  men,  and  an  intelligence  and  inde- 
pendence about  the  women,  that  distinguish  them 
from  their  cousins  of  the  Peninsula.  The  Amer- 
ican element  has  recently  grown  very  prominent  in 
the  political  and  social  world.  Admiral  Topete  is 
a  Mexican.  His  wife  is  one  of  the  distinguished 
Cuban  family  of  Arrieta.  General  Prim  married  a 
Mexican  heiress.     The  magnificent  Duchess  de  la 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  13 

Torre,  wife  of  the  Eegent  Serrano,  is  a  Cuban  bom 
and  bred. 

In  one  particular  Madrid  is  unique  among  capi- 
tals,—  it  has  no  suburbs.  It  lies  in  a  desolate 
table-land  in  the  windy  waste  of  New  Castile ; 
on  the  BR)rth  the  snowy  Guadarrama  chills  its 
breezes,  and  on  every  other  side  the  tawny  land- 
scape stretches  away  in  dwarfish  hills  and  shallow 
ravines  barren  of  shrub  or  tree,  until  distance  fuses 
the  vast  steppes  into  one  drab  plain,  which  melts 
in  the  hazy  verge  of  the  warm  horizon.  There  are 
no  villages  sprinkled  in  the  environs  to  lure  the 
Madrilenos  out  of  their  walls  for  a  holiday.  Those 
delicious  picnics  that  break  with  such  enchanting 
freshness  and  variety  the  steady  course  of  life  in 
other  capitals  cannot  here  exist.  No  Parisian  loves 
la  lonne  ville  so  much  that  he  does  not  call  those 
the  happiest  of  days  on  which  he  deserts  her  for  a 
row  at  Asnieres,  a  donkey-ride  at  Enghien,  or  a 
bird-like  dinner  in  the  vast  chestnuts  of  Sceaux. 
"There  is  only  one  Kaiserstadt,"  sings  the  loyal 
Kerl  of  Vienna,  but  he  shakes  the  dust  of  the  Graben 
from  his  feet  on  holiday  mornings,  and  makes  his 
merry  pilgrimage  to  the  lordly  Schoenbrunn  or  the 
heartsome  Dornbach,  or  the  wooded  eyry  of  the 
Kahlenberg.  What  would  white-bait  be  if  not 
eaten  at  Greenwich  ?  What  would  life  be  in  the 
great  cities  without  the  knowledge  that  just  out- 
side, an  hour  away  from  the  toil  and  dust  and 


14  .  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

struggle  of  this  money-getting  world,  there  are  green 
fields,  and  whispering  forests,  and  verdurous  nooks 
of  breezy  shadow  by  the  side  of  brooks  where  the 
white  pebbles  shine  through  the  mottled  stream,  — 
where  you  find  great  pied  pansies  under  your  hands, 
and  catch  the  black  beady  eyes  of  orioles*  watching 
you  from  the  thickets,  and  through  the  lush  leafage 
over  you  see  patches  of  sky  flecked  with  thin  clouds 
that  sail  so  lazily  you  cannot  be  sure  if  the  blue  or 
the  white  is  moving?  Existence  without  these 
luxuries  would  be  very  much  like  life  in  Madrid. 

Yet  it  is  not  so  dismal  as  it  might  seem.  The 
Grande  Duchesse  of  Gerolstein,  the  cheeriest  moral- 
ist who  ever  occupied  a  throne,  announces  just  be- 
fore the  curtain  falls,  "  Quand  on  n'a  pas  ce  qu'on 
aime,  il  faut  aimer  ce  qu'on  a."  But  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  love  what  you  have  when  you  never 
imagined  anything  better !  The  bulk  of  the  good 
people  of  Madrid  have  never  left  their  natal  city. 
If  they  have  been,  for  their  sins,  some  day  to  Val- 
lecas  or  Carabanchel  or  any  other  of  the  dusty 
villages  that  bake  and  shiver  on  the  arid  plains 
around  them,  they  give  fervid  thanks  on  returning 
alive,  and  never  wish  to  go  again.  They  shudder 
when  they  hear  of  the  summer  excursions  of  other 
populations,  and  commiserate  them  profoundly  for 
living  in  a  place  they  are  so  anxious  to  leave.  A 
lovely  girl  of  Madrid  once  said  to  me  she  never 
wished  to  travel,  —  some  people  who  had  been  to 


MADRID   AL   FRESCO.  15 

France  preferred  Paris  to  Madrid  ;  as  if  that  were 
an  inexplicable  insanity  by  which  their  wanderings 
had  been  punished.  The  indolent  incuriousness  of 
the  Spaniard  accepts  the  utter  isolation  of  his  city 
as  rather  an  advantage.  It  saves  him  the  trouble 
of  making  up  his  mind  where  to  go.  Vamonos  al 
Prado  I  or,  as  Browning  says,  — 

*'  Let 's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time." 

The  people  of  Madrid  take  more  solid  comfort  in 
their  promenade  than  any  I  know.  This  is  one  of 
the  inestimable  benefits  conferred  upon  them  by 
those  wise  and  liberal  free-thinkers  Charles  III. 
and  Aranda.  They  knew  how  important  to  the 
moral  and  physical  health  of  the  people  a  place  of 
recreation  was.  They  reduced  the  hideous  waste 
land  on  the  east  side  of  the  city  to  a  breathing 
space  for  future  generations,  turning  the  meadow 
into  a  promenade  and  the  hill  into  the  Buen  Ketiro. 
The  people  growled  terribly  at  the  time,  as  they  did 
at  nearly  eve^^ything  this  prematurely  liberal  gov- 
ernment did  for  them.  The  wise  King  once  wittily 
said :  "  My  people  are  like  bad  children  that  kick 
the  shins^  of  their  nurse  whenever  their  faces  are 
washed." 

But  they  soon  became  reconciled  to  their  Prado, 
—  a  name,  by  the  way,  which  runs  through  several 
idioms,  —  in  Paris  they  had  a  Pr^-aux-clercs,  the 
Clerks'  Meadow,  and  the  great  park  of  Vienna  is 


16  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

called  the  Prater.  It  was  originally  the  favorite 
scene  of  duels,  and  the  cherished  trysting-place  of 
lovers.  But  in  modern  times  it  is  too  popular  for 
any  such  selfish  use. 

The  polite  world  takes  its  stately  promenade  in 
the  winter  afternoons  in  the  northern  prolongation 
of  the  real  Prado,  called  in  the  official  courtier  style 
Las  delicias  de  Isabel  Segunda,  but  in  common  speech 
the  Castilian  Fountain,  or  Castellana,  to  save  time. 
So  perfect  is  the  social  discipline  in  these  old  coun- 
tries that  people  who  are  not  in  society  never  walk 
in  this  long  promenade,  which  is  open  to  all  the 
world.  You  shall  see  there,  any  pleasant  day  be- 
fore the  Carnival,  the  aristocracy  of  the  kingdom, 
the  fast  young  hopes  of  the  nobility,  the  diplomatic 
body  resident,  and  the  flexible  figures  and  graceful 
bearing  of  the  high-born  ladies  of  Castile.  Here 
they  take  the  air  as  free  from  snobbish  competition 
as  the  good  society  of  Olympus,  while  a  hundred 
paces  farther  south,  just  beyond  the  Mint,  the  world 
at  large  takes  its  plebeian  constitutional.  How  long, 
with  a  democratic  system  of  government,  this  pure- 
ly conventional  respect  will  be  paid  to  blueness  of 
blood  cannot  be  conjectured.  Its  existence  a  year 
after  the  Eevolution  was  to  me  one  of  the  most  sin- 
gular of  phenomena. 

After  Easter  Monday  the  Castellana  is  left  to  its 
own  devices  for  the  summer.  With  the  warm  long 
days  of  May  and  June,  the  evening  walk  in  the 


MADRID   AL   FRESCO.  17 

Salon  begins.  Europe  affords  no  scene  more  origi- 
nal and  characteristic.  The  whole  city  meets  in 
this  starlit  drawing-room.  It  is  a  vast  evening 
party  al  fresco,  stretching  from  the  Alcala  to  the 
Course  of  San  Geronimo.  In  the  wide  street  be- 
side it  every  one  in  town  who  owns  a  carriage  may 
be  seen  moving  lazily  up  and  down,  and  apparently 
envying  the  gossiping  stroUers  on  foot.  On  three 
nights  in  the  week  there  is  music  in  the  Eetiro  Gar- 
den, —  not  as  in  our  feverish  way  beginning  so  early 
that  you  must  sacrifice  your  dinner  to  get  there,  and 
then  turning  you  out  disconsolate  in  that  seductive 
hour  which  John  Phoenix  used  to  call  the  "  shank  of 
the  evening,"  but  opening  sensibly  at  half  past  nine 
and  going  leisurely  forward  until  after  midnight. 
The  music  is  very  good.  Sometimes  Arban  comes 
down  from  Paris  to  recover  from  his  winter  fatigues 
and  bewitch  the  Spains  with  his  wizard  baton. 

In  all  this  vast  crowd  nobody  is  in  a  hurry.  They 
have  aU  night  before  them.  They  stayed  quietly  at 
home  in  the  stress  of  the  noontide  when  the  sun- 
beams were  falHng  in  the  glowing  streets  like  jave- 
lins, —  they  utilized  some  of  the  waste  hours  of  the 
broiling  afternoon  in  sleep,  and  are  fresh  as  daisies 
now.  The  women  are  not  haunted  by  the  thought 
of  lords  and  babies  growling  and  wailing  at  home. 
Their  lords  are  beside  them,  the  babies  are  sprawl- 
ing in  the  clean  gravel  by  their  chairs.  Late  in  the 
small  hours  I  have  seen  these  family  parties  in  the 


18  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

promenade,  the  husband  tranquilly  smoking  his  hun- 
dredth cigarette,  his  placens  uxor  dozing  in  her  chair, 
one  baby  asleep  on  the  ground,  and  another  slumber- 
ing in  her  lap. 

This  Madrid  climate  is  a  gallant  one,  and  kindlier 
to  the  women  than  the  men.  The  ladies  are  built 
on  the  old-fashioned  generous  plan.  Like  a  South- 
ern table  in  the  old  times,  the  only  fault  is  too 
abundant  plenty.  They  move  along  with  a  superb 
dignity  of  carriage  that  Banting  would  like  to  banish 
from  the  world,  their  round  white  shoulders  shining 
in  the  starlight,  their  fine  heads  elegantly  draped  in 
the  coquettish  and  always  graceful  mantiUa.  But 
you  would  look  in  vain  among  the  men  of  Madrid 
for  such  fulness  and  liberality  of  structure.  They 
are  thin,  eager,  sinewy  in  appearance,  —  though  it 
is  the  spareness  of  the  Turk,  not  of  the  American. 
It  comes  from  tobacco  and  the  Guadarrama  winds. 
This  still,  fine,  subtle  air  that  blows  from  the  craggy 
peaks  over  the  treeless  plateau  seems  to  take  aU 
superfluous  moisture  out  of  the  men  of  Madrid. 
But  it  is,  like  Benedick's  wit,  "  a  most  manly  air, 
it  wUl  not  hurt  a  woman." 

This  tropic  summer-time  brings  the  halcyon  days 
of  the  vagabonds  of  Madrid.  They  are  a  temperate, 
reasonable  people,  after  all,  when  they  are  let  alone. 
They  do  not  require  the  savage  stimulants  of  our 
colder-blooded  race.  The  fresh  air  is  a  feast.  As 
Walt  Whitman  says,  "  They  loaf  and  invite  their 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  19 

souls."  They  provide  for  the  banquet  only  the  most 
spiritual  provender.  Their  dissipation  is  confined 
principally  to  starlight  and  zephyrs;  the  coarser 
and  wealthier  spirits  indulge  in  ice,  agraz,  and 
meringues  dissolved  in  water.  The  climax  of  their 
luxury  is  a  cool  bed.  Walking  about  the  city  at 
midnight,  I  have  seen  the  fountains  all  surrounded 
by  luxurious  vagabonds  asleep  or  in  revery,  dozens 
of  them  stretched  along  the  rim  of  the  basins,  in 
the  spray  of  the  splashing  water,  where  the  least 
start  would  plunge  them  in.  But  the  dreams  of 
these  Latin  beggars  are  too  peaceful  to  trouble  their 
slumber.  They  lie  motionless,  amid  the  roar  of 
wheels  and  the  tramp  of  a  thousand  feet,  their  bed 
the  sculptured  marble,  their  covering  the  deep, 
amethystine  vault,  warm  and  cherishing  with  its 
breath  of  summer  winds,  bright  with  its  trooping 
stars.  The  Providence  of  the  worthless  watches 
and  guards  them ! 

The  chief  commerce  of  the  streets  of  Madrid 
seems  to  be  fire  and  water,  bane  and  antidote.  It 
would  be  impossible  for  so  many  match-venders'to 
live  anywhere  else,  in  a  city  ten  times  the  size  of 
Madrid.  On  every  block  you  will  find  a  wandering 
merchant  dolefully  announcing  paper  and  phospho- 
rus, —  the  one  to  construct  cigarettes  and  the  other 
to  light  them.  The  matches  are  little  waxen  tapers 
very  neatly  made  and  enclosed  in  pasteboard  boxes, 
which  are  sold  for  a  cent  and  contain  about  a  hun- 


20  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

dred  fosforos.  These  boxes  are  ornamented  with 
portraits  of  the  popular  favorites  of  the  day,  and 
afford  a  very  fair  test  of  the  progress  and  dedine 
of  parties.  The  Queen  has  disappeared  from  them 
except  in  caricature,  and  the  chivalrous  face  of 
Castelar  and  the  heavy  Bourbon  mouth  of  Don 
Carlos  are  oftener  seen  than  any  others.  A  Madrid 
smoker  of  average  industry  will  use  a  box  a  day. 
They  smoke  more  cigarettes  than  cigars,  and  in  the 
ardor  of  conversation  allow  their  fire  to  go  out  every 
minute.  A  young  Austrian,  who  was  watching  a 
sefiorito  light  his  wisp  of  paper  for  the  fifth  time, 
and  mentally  comparing  it  with  the  volcano  volume 
and  kern-deutsch  integrity  of  purpose  of  the  meer- 
schaums of  his  native  land,  said  to  me :  "  What 
can  you  expect  of  a  people  who  trifle  in  that  way 
with  the  only  work  of  their  lives  ? " 

It  is  this  habit  of  constant  smoking  that  makes 
the  Madrilenos  the  thirstiest  people  in  the  world ; 
so  that,  alternating  with  the  cry  of  "  Fire,  lordlings  ! 
Matches,  chevaliers ! "  you  hear  continually  the  drone 
so  tempting  to  parched  throats,  "  Water  !  who  wants 
water  ?  freezing  water  !  colder  than  snow  ! "  This 
is  the  daily  song  of  the  Gallician  who  marches 
along  in  his  irrigating  mission,  with  his  brown 
blouse,  his  short  breeches,  and  pointed  hat,  like 
that  Aladdin  wears  in  the  cheap  editions ;  a  little 
varied  by  the  Valentian  in  his  party-colored  mantle 
and  his  tow  trousers,  showing  the  bronzed  leg  from 


MADRID   AL  FRESCO.  21 

the  knee  to  the  blue-bordered  sandals.  Numerous 
as  they  are,  they  all  seem  to  have  enough  to  do. 
They  carry  their  scriptural-looking  water-jars  on  their 
backs,  and  a  smart  tray  of  tin  and  burnished  brass, 
with  meringues  and  glasses,  in  front.  The  glasses 
are  of  enormous  but  not  extravagant  proportions. 
These  dropsical  Iberians  will  drink  water  as  if  it 
were  no  stronger  than  beer.  In  the  winter  time, 
while  the  cheerful  invitation  rings  out  to  the  same 
effect,  —  that  the  beverage  is  cold  as  the  snow,  — 
the  merchant  prudently  carries  a  little  pot  of  hot 
water  over  a  spirit-lamp  to  take  the  chill  off  for 
shivery  customers. 

Madrid  is  one  of  those  cities  where  strangers  fear 
the  climate  less  than  residents.  Nothing  is  too  bad 
for  the  Castilian  to  say  of  his  native  air.  Before 
you  have  been  a  day  in  the  city  some  kind  soul 
wiU  warn  you  against  everything  you  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing  as  leading  to  sudden  and  severe 
death  in  this  subtle  air.  You  will  hear  in  a  dozen 
different  tones  the  favorite  proverb  which  may  be 
translated,  — 

The  air  of  Madrid  is  as  sharp  as  a  knife,  — 
It  will  spare  a  candle  and  blow  out  your  life  ; 

and  another  where  the  truth,  as  in  many  Spanish 
proverbs,  is  sacrificed  to  the  rhyme,  saying  that  the 
climate  is  tres  meses  invierno  y  nueve  infiernOj  — 
three  months  winter  and  nine  months  tophet.  At 
the  first  coming  of  the  winter  frosts  the  genuine 


22  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

son  of  Madrid  gets  out  his  capa,  the  national  full 
round  cloak,  and  never  leaves  it  off  until  late  in  the 
hot  spring  days.  They  have  a  way  of  throwing  one 
corner  over  the  left  shoulder,  so  that  a  bright  strip 
of  gay  lining  falls  outward  and  pleasantly  relieves 
the  sombre  monotony  of  the  streets.  In  this  way 
the  face  is  completely  covered  by  the  heavy  woollen 
folds,  only  the  eyes  being  visible  under  the  som- 
brero. The  true  Spaniard  breathes  no  out-of-doors 
air  all  winter  except  through  his  cloak,  and  they 
stare  at  strangers  who  go  about  with  uncovered 
faces  enjoying  the  brisk  air  as  if  they  were  lunatics. 
But  what  makes  the  custom  absurdly  incongruous 
is  that  the  women  have  no  such  terror  of  fresh  air. 
While  the  hidalgo  goes  smothered  in  his  wrappings 
his  wife  and  daughter  wear  nothing  on  their  necks 
and  faces  but  their  pretty  complexions,  and  the  gal- 
lant breeze,  grateful  for  this  generous  confidence, 
repays  them  in  roses.  I  have  sometimes  fancied 
that  in  this  land  of  traditions  this  difference  might 
have  arisen  in  those  days  of  adventure  when  the 
cavaliers  had  good  reasons  for  keeping  their  faces 
concealed,  while  the  senoras,  we  are  bound  to  be- 
lieve, have  never  done  anything  for  which  their 
own  beauty  was  not  the  best  excuse. 

Nearly  all  there  is  of  interest  in  Madrid  consists 
in  the  faces  and  the  life  of  its  people.  There  is  but 
one  portion  of  the  city  which  appeals  to  the  tourist's 
ordinary  set  of  emotions.     This  is  the  old  Moors' 


MADRID   AL   FRESCO.  23 

quarter, — the  intricate  jumble  of  streets  and  places 
on  the  western  edge  of  the  town,  overlooking  the 
bankrupt  river.  Here  is  St.  Andrew's,  the  parish 
church  where  Isabella  the  Catholic  and  her  pious 
husband  used  to  offer  their  stiff  and  dutiful  prayers. 
Behind  it  a  market-place  of  the  most  primitive 
kind  runs  precipitately  down  to  the  Street  of 
Segovia,  at  such  an  angle  that  you  wonder  the  tur- 
nips and  carrots  can  ever  be  brought  to  keep  their 
places  on  the  rocky  slope.  If  you  will  wander 
through  the  dark  aUeys  and  hiQy  streets  of  this 
quarter  when  twilight  is  softening  the  tall  tene- 
ment-houses to  a  softer  purpose,  and  the  doorways 
are  all  full  of  gossiping  groups,  and  here  and  there 
in  the  little  courts  you  can  hear  the  tinkling  of  a 
guitar  and  the  drone  of  ballads,  and  see  the  idlers 
lounging  by  the  fountains,  and  everywhere  against 
the  purple  sky  the  crosses  of  old  convents,  while  the 
evening  air  is  musical  with  slow  chimes  from  the 
fuU-arched  belfries,  it  will  not  be  hard  to  imagine 
you  are  in  the  Spain  you  have  read  and  dreamed  of. 
And,  climbing  out  of  this  labyrinth  of  slums,  you 
pass  under  the  gloomy  gates  that  lead  to  the  Plaza 
Mayor.  This  once  magnificent  square  is  now  as 
squalid  and  forsaken  as  the  Place  Eoyale  of  Paris, 
though  it  dates  from  a  period  comparatively  recent. 
The  mind  so  instinctively  revolts  at  the  contempla- 
tion of  those  orgies  of  priestly  brutality  which  have 
made  the  very  name  of  this  place  redolent  with  a 


24  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

fragrance  of  scorched  Christians,  that  we  naturally 
assign  it  an  immemorial  antiquity.  But  a  glance 
at  the  booby  face  of  Philip  III.  on  his  round-bellied 
charger  in  the  centre  of  the  square  will  remind  us 
that  this  place  was  built  at  the  same  time  the  May- 
flower's passengers  were  laying  the  massive  founda- 
\  tions  of  the  great  Eepublic.  The  Autos-da-Fe,  the 
plays  of  Lope  de  Vega,  and  the  bull-fights  went  on 
for  many  years  with  impartial  frequency  under  the 
approving  eyes  of  royalty,  which  occupied  a  con- 
venient balcony  in  the  Panaderia,  that  over-dressed 
building  with  the  two  extinguisher  towers.  Down 
to  a  period  disgracefully  near  us  those  balconies 
were  occupied  by  the  dull-eyed,  pendulous-lipped 
tyrants  who  have  sat  on  the  throne  of  St.  Ferdinand, 
while  there  in  the  spacious  court  below  the  varied 
sports  went  on,  —  to-day  a  comedy  of  Master  Lope, 
to-morrow  the  gentle  and  joyous  slaying  of  bulls, 
and  the  next  day,  with  greater  pomp  and  ceremony, 
with  banners  hung  from  the  windows,  and  my  Lord 
the  King  surrounded  by  his  women  and  his  courtiers 
in  their  bravest  gear,  and  the  august  presence  of  the 
chief  priests  and  their  idol  in  the  form  of  wine  and 
,  wafers,  —  the  judgment  and  fiery  sentence  of  the 
/  thinking  men  of  Spain. 

Let  us  remember  as  we  leave  this  accursed  spot 
that  the  old  palace  of  the  Inquisition  is  now  the 
Ministry  of  Justice,  where  a  liberal  statesman  has 
just  drawn  up  the  bill  of  Civil  Marriage  ;  and  that 


MADRID  AL  FRESCO.  25 

in  the  Convent  of  the  Trinitarians  a  Spanish  Ea- 
tionalist,  the  Minister  of  Fomento,  is  laboring  to 
secularize  education  in  the  Peninsula.  There  is 
much  coiling  and  hissing,  but  the  fangs  of  the  ser- 
pent are  much  less  prompt  and  effective  than  of 
old. 

The  wide  Calle  Mayor  brings  you  in  a  moment 
out  of  these  mouldy  shadows  and  into  the  broad 
light  of  nowadays  which  shines  in  the  Puerta  del 
Sol.  Here,  under  the  walls  of  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior,  the  quick,  restless  heart  of  Madrid  beats 
with  the  new  life  it  has  lately  earned.  The  flags 
of  the  pavement  have  been  often  stained  with  blood, 
but  of  blood  shed  in  combat,  in  the  assertion  of 
individual  freedom.  Although  the  government  holds 
that  fortress-palace  with  a  grasp  of  iron,  it  can  exer- 
cise no  control  over  the  free  speech  that  asserts  it- 
self on  the  very  sidewalk  of  the  Principal.  At 
every  step  you  see  news-stands  filled  with  the  sharp 
critical  journalism  of  Spain,  —  often  ignorant  and 
unjust,  but  generally  courteous  in  expression  and 
independent  in  thought.  Every  day  at  noon  the 
northern  mails  bring  hither  the  word  of  all  Europe 
to  the  awaking  Spanish  mind,  and  within  that  mas- 
sive building  the  converging  lines  of  the  telegraph 
are  whispering  every  hour  their  persuasive  lessons 
of  the  world's  essential  unity.  '/\\ 

The  movement  of  life  and  growth  is  bearing  the 
population  gradually  away  from  that  dark  mediaeval 

2 


26  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Madrid  of  the  Catholic  kings  through  the  Puerta 
del  Sol  to  the  airy  heights  beyond,  and  the  new, 
fresh  quarter  built  by  the  philosopher  Bourbon 
Charles  III.  is  becoming  the  most  important  part 
of  the  city.  I  think  we  may  be  permitted  to  hope 
that  the  long  reign  of  savage  faith  and  repression 
is  broken  at  last,  and  that  this  abused  and  suffering 
people  is  about  to  enter  into  its  rightful  inheritance 
\of  modern  freedom  and  progress. 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  27 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING. 

Nowhere  is  the  sentiment  of  home  stronger  than 
in  Spain.  Strangers,  whose  ideas  of  the  Spanish 
character  have  been  gained  from  romance  and 
comedy,  are  apt  to  note  with  some  surprise  the 
strength  and  prevalence  of  the  domestic  affections. 
But  a  moment's  reflection  shows  us  that  nothing  is 
more  natural.  It  is  the  result  of  aU.  their  history. 
The  old  Celtic  population  had  scarcely  any  religion 
but  that  of  the  family.  The  Goths  brought  in  the  ] 
pure  Teutonic  regard  for  woman  and  marriage.  The 
Moors  were  distinguished  by  the  patriarchal  struc- 
ture of  their  society.  The  Spaniards  have  thus 
learned  the  lesson  of  home  in  the  school  of  history  i 
and  tradition.  The  intense  feeling  of  individuality^ 
which  so  strongly  marks  the  Spanish  character,  and 
which  in  the  political  world  is  so  fatal  an  element 
of  strife  and  obstruction,  favors  this  peculiar  do- 
mesticity. The  Castilian  is  submissive  to  his  king 
and  his  priest,  haughty  and  inflexible  with  his  equals. 
But  his  own  house  is  a  refuge  from  the  contests  of 
out  of  doors.  The  reflex  of  absolute  authority  is 
here  observed,  it  is  true.  The  Spanish  father  is 
f|,]5^9^V^tj^  king  and  lord  by  his  own  hearthstone,  but 


28  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

his  sway  is  so  mild  and  so  readily  acquiesced  in 
that  it  is  hardly  felt.  The  evils  of  tyranny  are 
rarely  seen  but  by  him  who  resists  it,  and  the 
Spanish  family  seldom  calls  for  the  harsh  exercise 
of  parental  authority. 

This  is  the  rule.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  there  are 
no  exceptions.  The  pride  and  jealousy  inherent  iu 
the  race  make  family  quarrels,  when  they  do  arise, 
the  bitterest  and  the  fiercest  in  the  world.  In  every 
grade  of  life  these  vindictive  feuds  among  kindred 
are  seen  from  time  to  time.  Twice  at  least  the  steps 
of  the  throne  have  been  splashed  with  royal  blood 
shed  by  a  princely  hand.  Duels  between  noble 
cousins  and  stabbing  affrays  between  peasant  broth- 
ers alike  attest  the  unbending  sense  of  personal 
dignity  that  still  infects  this  people. 

A  light  word  between  husbands  and  wives  some*. 
times  goes  unexplained,  and  the  rift  between  them 
widens  through  life.  I  know  some  houses  where 
the  wife  enters  at  one  door  and  the  husband  at  an- 
other ;  where  if  they  meet  on  the  stairs,  they  do  not 
salute  each  other.  Under  the  same  roof  they  have 
lived  for  years  and  have  not  spoken.  One  word 
would  heal  all  discord,  and  that  word  will  never  be 
spoken  by  either.  They  cannot  be  divorced,  —  the 
Church  is  inexorable.  They  will  not  incur  the  scandal 
of  a  public  separation.  So  they  pass  lives  of  lonely 
isolation  in  adjoining  apartments,  both  thinking 
rather  better  of  each  other  and  of  themselves  for 
this  devUish  persistence. 


SPANISH   LIVING   AND  DYING.  29 

An  infraction  of  parental  discipline  is  never  for- 
given. I  knew  a  general  whose  daughter  fell  in 
love  with  his  adjutant,  a  clever  and  amiable  young 
officer.  He  had  positively  no  objection  to  the 
suitor,  but  was  surprised  that  there  should  be  any 
love-making  in  his  house  without  his  previous  sug- 
gestion. He  refused  his  consent,  and  the  young 
people  were  married  without  it.  The  father  and 
son-in-law  went  off  on  a  campaign,  fought,  and 
were  wounded  in  the  same  battle.  The  general 
was  asked  to  recommend  his  son-in-law  for  pro- 
motion. "  I  have  no  son-in-law ! "  "  I  mean  your 
daughter's  husband."  "  I  have  no  daughter."  "  I 
refer  to  Lieutenant  Don  Fulano  de  Tal.  He  is  a 
good  officer.  He  distinguished  himself  greatly  in 
the  recent  affair."  "Ah  !  otra  cosa  ! "  said  the  grim 
father-in-law.  His  hate  could  not  overcome  his 
sense  of  justice.  The  youth  got  his  promotion,  but 
his  general  will  not  recognize  him  at  the  Club. 

It  is  in  the  middle  and  lower  classes  that  the 
most  perfect  pictures  of  the  true  Spanish  family 
are  to  be  found.  The  aristocracy  is  more  or  less  in- 
fected with  the  contagion  of  Continental  manners 
and  morals.  You  will  find  there  the  usual  propor- 
tion of  wives  who  despise  their  husbands,  and  men 
who  neglect  their  wives,  and  children  who  do  not 
honor  their  parents.  The  smartness  of  American 
•'  pickles  "  has  even  made  its  appearance  among  the 
little  countesses  of  Madrid.     A  lady  was  eating  an 


30  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

ice  one  day,  hungrily  watched  by  the  wide  eyes  of 
the  infant  heiress  of  the  house.  As  the  latter  saw 
the  last  hope  vanishing  before  the  destroying  spoon, 
she  cried  out,  "  Thou  eatest  all  and  givest  me  none, 
—  maldita  sea  tu  alma!"  (accursed  be  thy  soul.) 
This  dreadful  imprecation  was  greeted  with  roars 
of  laughter  from  admiring  friends,  and  the  profane 
little  innocent  was  smothered  in  kisses  and  cream. 

Passing  at  noon  by  any  of  the  squares  or  shady 
places  of  Madrid,  you  will  see  dozens  of  laboring 
people  at  their  meals.  They  sit  on  the  ground, 
around  the  steaming  and  savory  cocido  that  forms 
the  peasant  Spaniard's  unvaried  dinner.  The  foun- 
dation is  of  garbanzos,  the  large  chick-pea  of  the 
country,  brought  originally  to  Europe  by  the  Car- 
thaginians, —  the  Eoman  deer,  which  gave  its  name 
to  the  greatest  of  the  Latin  orators.  All  other 
available  vegetables  are  thrown  in  ;  on  days  of  high 
gala  a  piece  of  meat  is  added,  and  some  forehanded 
housewives  attain  the  climax  of  luxury  by  flavoring 
the  compound  with  a  link  of  sausage.  The  mother 
brings  the  dinner  and  her  tawny  brood  of  nestlings. 
A  shady  spot  is  selected  for  the  feast.  The  father 
dips  his  wooden  spoon  first  into  the  vapory  bowl, 
and  mother  and  babes  follow  with  grave  decorum. 
Idle  loungers  passing  these  patriarchal  groups,  on 
their  way  to  a  vapid  French  breakfast  at  a  restau- 
rant, catch  the  fragrance  of  the  olla  and  the  chatter 
of  the  family,  and  envy  the  dinner  of  herbs  with 
love. 


SPANISH   LIVING   AND   DYING.  31 

There  is  no  people  so  frugal.  We  often  wonder 
how  a  Washington  clerk  can  live  on  twelve  hun- 
dred dollars,  but  this  would  be  luxury  in  expensive 
Madrid.  It  is  one  of  the  dearest  capitals  in  Europe. 
Foreigners  are  never  weary  decrying  its  high  prices 
for  poor  fare ;  but  Castilians  live  in  good  houses, 
dress  well,  receive  their  intimate  friends,  and  hold 
their  own  with  the  best  in  the  promenade,  upon  in- 
comes that  would  seem  penury  to  any  country  par- 
son in  America.  There  are  few  of  the  nobility  who 
retain  the  great  fortunes  of  former  days.  You  can 
almost  tell  on  your  fingers  the  tale  of  the  grandees 
in  Madrid  who  can  live  without  counting  the  cost. 
The  army  and  navy  are  crowded  with  general  ofi&- 
cers  whose  political  services  have  obliged  their  pro- 
motion. The  state  is  too  much  impoverished  to  pay 
liberal  salaries,  and  yet  the  rank  of  these  officers 
requires  the  maintenance  of  a  certain  social  posi- 
tion. Few  of  them  are  men  of  fortune.  The  re- 
sult is  that  necessity  has  taught  them  to  live  well 
upon  little.  I  knew  widows  who  went  everywhere 
in  society,  whose  daughters  were  always  charmingly 
dressed,  who  lived  in  a  decent  quarter  of  the  town, 
and  who  had  no  resources  whatever  but  their  hus- 
band's pension. 

The  best  proof  of  the  capacity  of  Spaniards  to 
spread  a  little  gold  over  as  much  space  as  a  gold- 
beater could,  is  the  enormous  competition  for  public 
employment.     Half  the  young  men  in  Spain  are 


32  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

candidates  for  places  under  government  ranging 
from  $  250  to  $  1,000.  Places  of  $  1,500  to  $  2,000 
are  considered  objects  of  legitimate  ambition  even 
to  deputies  and  leading  politicians.  Expressed  in 
reals  these  sums  have  a  large  and  satisfying  sound. 
Fifty  dollars  seems  little  enough  for  a  month's  work, 
but  a  thousand  reals  has  the  look  of  a  most  respect- 
able salary.  In  Portugal,  however,  you  can  have 
all  the  delightful  sensations  of  prodigality  at  a  con- 
temptible cost.  You  can  pay,  without  serious 
damage  to  your  purse,  five  thousand  reis  for  your 
breakfast. 

It  is  the  smallness  of  incomes  and  the  necessity 
of  looking  sharply  to  the  means  of  life  that  makes 
the  young  people  of  Madrid  so  prudent  in  their 
love  affairs.  I  know  of  no  place  where  ugly  heir- 
esses are  such  beUes,  and  where  young  men  with 
handsome  incomes  are  so  universally  esteemed  by 
all  who  know  them.  The  stars  on  the  sleeves  of 
young  officers  are  more  regarded  than  their  dancing, 
and  the  red  belt  of  a  field  officer  is  as  winning  in 
the  eyes  of  beauty  as  a  cestus  of  Venus.  A  subal- 
tern offered  his  hand  and  heart  to  a  black-eyed  girl 
of  Castile.  She  said  kindly  but  firmly  that  the 
night  was  too  cloudy.  "  What,"  said  the  stupefied 
lover,  "  the  sky  is  fuU  of  stars."  "  I  see  but  one," 
said  the  prudent  beauty,  her  fine  eyes  resting  pen- 
sively upon  his  cuff,  where  one  lone  luminary  indi- 
cated his  rank. 


SPANISH  LIVING   AND  DYING.  33 

This  spirit  is  really  one  of  forethought,  and  not 
avarice.  People  who  have  enough  for  two  almost 
always  marry  from  inclination,  and  frequently  take 
partners  for  life  without  a  penny. 

If  men  were  never  henpecked  except  by  learned 
wives,  Spain  would  be  the  place  of  all  others  for 
timid  men  to  marry  in.  The  girls  are  bright,  vi- 
vacious, and  naturally  very  clever,  but  they  have 
scarcely  any  education  whatever.  They  never  know 
the  difference  between  b  and  v.  They  throw  them- 
selves in  orthography  entirely  upon  your  benevo- 
lence. They  know  a  little  music  and  a  little  French, 
but  they  have  never  crossed,  even  in  a  school-day 
excursion,  the  border  line  of  the  ologies.  They  do 
not  even  read  novels.  They  are  regarded  as  in- 
jurious, and  cannot  be  trusted  to  the  daughters  uiitil 
mamma  has  read  them.  Mamma  never  has  time  to 
read  them,  and  so  they  are  condemned  by  default. 
Fernan  Caballero,  in  one  of  her  sleepy  little  romances, 
refers  to  this  illiterate  character  of  the  Spanish  ladies, 
and  says  it  is  their  chief  charm,  —  that  a  Christian 
woman,  in  good  society,  ought  not  to  know  anything 
beyond  her  cookery-book  and  her  missal.  There  is 
an  old  proverb  which  coarsely  conveys  this  idea : 
A  mule  that  whinnies  and  a  woman  that  talks 
Latin  never  come  to  any  good.  There  is  a  con- 
tented acquiescence  in  this  moral  servitude  among 
the  fair  Spaniards  which  would  madden  our  agita- 
tresses.  (See  what  will  become  of  the  language 
2*  o 


34  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

when  male  words  are  crowded  out  of  the  diction- 
ary!) 

It  must  be  the  innocence  which  springs  from 
ignorance  that  induces  an  occasional  coarseness  of 
expression  which  surprises  you  in  the  conversation 
of  those  lovely  young  girls.  They  will  speak  with 
perfect  freedom  of  the  etat-civil  of  a  young  unmar- 
ried mother.  A  maiden  of  fifteen  said  to  me  :  "  I 
must  go  to  a  party  this  evening  decolletee,  and  I  hate 
it.  Benigno  is  getting  old  enough  to  marry,  and  he 
wants  to  see  all  the  girls  in  low  neck  before  he 
makes  up  his  mind."  They  all  swear  like  troopers, 
without  a  thought  of  profanity.  Their  mildest  ex- 
pression of  surprise  is  Jesus  Maria  !  They  change 
their  oaths  with  the  season.  At  the  feast  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception,  the  favorite  oath  is  Maria 
Purissima.  This  is  a  time  of  especial  interest  to 
young  girls.  It  is  a  period  of  compulsory  confes- 
sion, —  conscience-cleaning,  as  they  call  it.  They 
are  all  very  pious  in  their  way.  They  attend  to 
their  religious  duties  with  the  same  interest  which 
they  displayed  a  few  years  before  in  dressing  and 
undressing  their  dolls,  and  will  display  a  few  years 
later  in  putting  the  lessons  they  learned  with  their 
dolls  to  a  more  practical  use. 

The  visible  concrete  symbols  and  observances  of 
religion  have  great  influence  with  them.  They  are 
fond  of  making  vows  in  tight  places  and  faithfully 
observing  them  afterwards.     In  an  hour's  walk  in 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  35 

the  streets  of  Madrid  you  will  see  a  dozen  ladies 
with  a  leather  strap  buckled  about  their  slender 
waists  and  hanging  nearly  to  the  ground.  Others 
wear  a  knotted  cord  and  tassels.  These  are  worn 
as  the  fulfilment  of  vows,  or  penances.  I  am  afraid 
they  give  rise  to  much  worldly  conjecture  on  the 
part  of  idle  youth  as  to  what  amiable  sins  these 
pretty  penitents  can  have  been  guilty  of.  It  is  not 
prudent  to  ask  an  explanation  of  the  peculiar  mercy, 
or  remorse,  which  this  purgatorial  strap  commemo- 
rates. You  will  probably  not  enlarge  your  stock  of 
knowledge  further  than  to  learn  that  the  lady  in 
question  considers  you  a  great  nuisance. 

The  graceful  lady  who,  in  ascending  the  throne- 
of  France,  has  not  ceased  to  be  a  thorough  Spaniard, 
still  preserves  these  pretty  weaknesses  of  her  youth. 
She  vowed  a  chapel  to  her  patron  saint  if  her  first- 
born was  a  man-child,  and  paid  it.  She  has  hung 
a  vestal  lamp  in  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame  des 
Victoires,  in  pursuance  of  a  vow  she  keeps  rigidly 
secret.  She  is  a  firm  believer  in  relics  also,  and 
keeps  a  choice  assortment  on  hand  in  the  Tuileries 
for  sudden  emergencies.  When  old  Baciocchi  lay 
near  his  death,  worn  out  by  a  horrible  nervous  dis- 
order which  would  not  let  him  sleep,  the  Empress 
told  the  doctors,  with  great  mystery,  that  she  would 
cure  him.  After  a  few  preliminary  masses,  she 
came  into  his  room  and  hung  on  his  bedpost  a  little 
gold-embroidered  sachet  containing  (if  the  evidence 


36  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

of  holy  men  is  to  be  believed)  a  few  threads  of  the 
swaddling-clothes  of  John  the  Baptist.  Her  simple 
childlike  faith  wrung  the  last  grim  smile  from  the 
tortured  lips  of  the  dying  courtier. 
\  The  very  names  of  the  Spanish  women  are  a 
constant  reminder  of  their  worship.  They  are  all 
named  out  of  the  calendar  of  saints  and  virgin 
martyrs.  A  large  majority  are  christened  Mary ; 
but  as  this  sacred  name  by  much  use  has  lost  all 
distinctive  meaning,  some  attribute,  some  especial 
invocation  of  the  Virgin,  is  always  coupled  with  it. 
The  names  of  Dolores,  Mercedes,  Milagros,  recall 
Our  Lady  of  the  Sorrows,  of  the  Gifts,  of  the 
Miracles.  I  knew  a  hoydenish  little  gypsy  who 
bore  the  tearful  name  of  Lagrimas.  The  most  ap- 
propriate name  I  heard  for  these  large-eyed,  soft- 
voiced  beauties  was  Peligros,  Our  Lady  of  Dangers. 
Who  could  resist  the  comforting  assurance  of  "  Con- 
suelo  "  ?  "  Blessed,"  says  my  Lord  Lytton,  "  is  wo- 
man who  consoles."  What  an  image  of  maiden 
purity  goes  with  the  name  of  Nieves,  the  Virgin  of 
the  Snows  !  From  a  single  cotillon  of  Castilian 
girls  you  can  construct  the  whole  history  of  Our 
Lady ;  Conception,  Annunciation,  Sorrows,  Soli- 
tude, Assumption.  As  young  ladies  are  never 
called  by  their  family  names,  but  always  by  their 
baptismal  appellations,  you  cannot  pass  an  evening 
in  a  Spanish  tertulia  without  being  reminded  of 
every  stage  in  the  life  of  the  Immaculate  Mother, 
1    from  Bethlehem  to  Calvary  and  beyond. 


SPANISH   LIVING   AND  DYING.  37 

The  common  use  of  sacred  words  is  universal  in 
Catholic  countries,  but  nowhere  so  striking  as  in 
Spain.  There  is  a  little  solemnity  in  the  French 
adieu.  But  the  Spaniard  says  adios  instead  of 
"good  morning."  No  letter  closes  without  the 
prayer,  "  God  guard  your  Grace  many  years  ! "  They 
say  a  judge  announces  to  a  murderer  his  sentence 
of  death  with  the  sacramental  wish  of  length  of 
days.  There  is  something  a  little  shocking  to  a 
Yankee  mind  in  the  label  of  Lachryma  Christi ; 
but  in  La  Mancha  they  call  fritters  the  Grace  of 
God. 

The  piety  of  the  Spanish  women  does  not  pre- 
vent them  from  seeing  some  things  clearly  enough 
with  their  bright  eyes.  One  of  the  most  bigoted 
women  in  Spain  recently  saidj-."  I  hesitate  to  let 
my  child  go  to  confession.  The  priests  ask  young 
girls  such  infamous  questions,  that  my  cheeks  bum 
when  I  think  of  them,  after  all  these  years."  I 
stood  one  Christmas  eve  in  the  cold  midnight  wind, 
waiting  for  the  church  doors  to  open  for  the  night 
mass,  the  famous  misa  del  gallo.  On  the  steps  be- 
side me  sat  a  decent  old  woman  with  her  two  daugh- 
ters. At  last  she  rose  and  said,  "  Girls,  it  is  no  use 
waiting  any  longer.  The  priests  won't  leave  their 
housekeepers  this  cold  night  to  save  anybody's 
soul."  In  these  two  cases,  taken  from  the  two  ex- 
tremes of  the  Catholic  society,  there  was  no  disre- 
spect for  the  Church  or  for  religion.     Both  these 


38  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

women  believed  with  a  blind  faith.  But  they  could 
not  help  seeing  how  unclean  were  the  hands  that 
dispensed  the  bread  of  life. 

The  respect  shown  to  the  priesthood  as  a  body  is 
marvellous,  in  view  of  the  profligate  lives  of  many. 
The  general  progress  of  the  age  has  forced  most  of 
the  dissolute  priests  into  hypocrisy.  But  their 
cynical  immorality  is  still  the  bane  of  many  fami- 
lies. And  it  needs  but  a  glance  at  the  vile  manual 
of  confession,  called  the  Golden  Key,  the  author  of 
which  is  the  too  well  known  Padre  Claret,  Confes- 
sor to  the  Queen,  to  see  the  systematic  moral  poison- 
ing the  minds  of  Spanish  women  must  undergo, 
who  pay  due  attention  to  what  is  called  their  re- 
ligious duties.  If  a  confessor  obeys  the  injunctions 
of  this  high  ecclesiastical  authority,  his  fair  peni- 
tents will  have  nothing  to  learn  from  a  diligent 
perusal  of  Faublas  or  Casanova.  It  would,  how- 
ever, be  unjust  to  the  priesthood  to  consider  them 
all  as  corrupt  as  royal  chaplains.  It  requires  a 
combination  of  convent  and  palace  life  to  produce 
these  finished  specimens  of  mitred  infamy. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  Spanish  women  are 
kept  in  such  systematic  ignorance.  They  have  a 
quicker  and  more  active  intelligence  than  the  men. 
With  a  fair  degree  of  education,  much  might  be 
hoped  from  them  in  the  intellectual  development 
of  the  country.  In  society,  you  wiU  at  once  be 
struck  with  the  superiority  of  the  women  to  their 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  39" 

husbands  and  brothers  in  cleverness  and  apprecia- 
tion. Among  small  tradesmen,  the  wife  always 
comes  to  the  rescue  of  her  slow  spouse  when  she 
sees  him  befogged  in  a  bargain.  In  the  fields,  you 
ask  a  peasant  some  question  about  your  journey. 
He  will  hesitate,  and  stammer,  and  end  with,  "  Quien 
sale  t "  but  his  wife  will  answer  with  glib  complete- 
ness all  you  want  to  know.  I  can  imagine  no  cause 
for  this,  unless  it  be  that  the  men  cloud  their  brains 
all  day  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco,  and  the  women 
do  not. 

The  personality  of  the  woman  is  not  so  entirely 
merged  in  that  of  the  husband  as  among  us.  She 
retains  her  own  baptismal  and  family  name  through 
life.  If  Miss  Matilda  Smith  marries  Mr.  Jonathan 
Jones,  all  vestige  of  the  former  gentle  being  vanishes 
at  once  from  the  earth,  and  Mrs.  Jonathan  Jones 
alone  remains.  But  in  Spain  she  would  become 
Mrs.  Matilda  Smith  de  Jones,  and  her  eldest-bom 
would  be  called  Don  Juan  Jones  y  Smith.  You 
ask  the  name  of  a  married  lady  in  society,  and  you 
hear  as  often  her  own  name  as  that  of  her  husband. 

Even  among  titled  people,  the  family  name 
seems  more  highly  valued  than  the  titular  designa- 
tion. Everybody  knows  Narvaez,  but  how  few  have 
heard  of  the  Duke  of  Valencia  !  The  Eegent  Ser- 
rano has  a  name  known  and  honored  over  the  world, 
but  most  people  must  think  twice  before  they  re- 
member the  Duke  de  la  Torre.    Juan  Prim  is  better 


40  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

known  than  the  Marquis  de  los  Castillejos  ever  will 
be.  It  is  perhaps  due  to  the  prodigality  with  which 
titles  have  been  scattered  in  late  years,  that  the 
older  titles  are  more  regarded  than  the  new,  al- 
though of  inferior  grade.  Thus  Prim  calls  himself 
almost  invariably  the  Conde  de  Eeus,  though  his 
grandeeship  came  with  his  investiture  as  Marquis. 

There  is  something  quite  noticeable  about  this 
easy  way  of  treating  one's  name.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  think  a  man  can  have  but  one  name,  and 
can  sign  it  but  in  one  way.  Lord  Derby  can  no 
more  call  himself  Mr.  Stanley  than  President  Grant 
can  sign  a  bill  as  U.  Simpson.  Yet  both  these  sig- 
natures would  be  perfectly  valid  according  to  Span- 
ish analogy.  The  Marquis  of  Santa  Marta  signs 
himself  Guzman ;  the  Marquis  of  Albaida  uses  no 
signature  but  Orense ;  both  of  these  gentlemen 
being  Eepublican  deputies.  I  have  seen  General 
Prim's  name  signed  officially,  Conde  de  Eeus,  Mar- 
ques de  los  Castillejos,  Prim,  J.  Prim,  Juan  Prim, 
and  Jean  Prim,  changing  the  style  as  often  as  the 
humor  strikes  him. 

Their  forms  of  courtesy  are,  however,  invariable. 
You  can  never  visit  a  Spaniard  without  his  inform- 
ing you  that  you  are  in  your  own  house.  If,  walk- 
ing with  him,  you  pass  his  residence,  he  asks  you 
to  enter  your  house  and  unfatigue  yourself  a  mo- 
ment. If  you  happen  upon  any  Spaniard,  of  what- 
ever class,  at  the  hour  of  repast,  he  always  offers 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  41 

you  his  dinner;  if  you  decline,  it  must  be  with 
polite  wishes  for  his  digestion.  With  the  Spaniards, 
no  news  is  good  news  ;  it  is  therefore  civil  to  ask  a 
Spaniard  if  his  lady-wife  goes  on  without  novelty, 
and  to  express  your  profound  gratification  on  being 
assured  that  she  does.  Their  forms  of  hospitality 
are  evidently  Moorish,  derived  from  the  genuine 
open  hand  and  open  tent  of  the  children  of  the 
desert ;  now  nothing  is  left  of  them  but  grave  and 
decorous  words.  In  the  old  times,  one  who  would 
have  refused  such  offers  would  have  been  held  a 
churl ;  now  one  who  would  accept  them  would  be 
regarded  as  a  boor. 

There  is  still  something  primitive  about  the  Span- 
ish servants.  A  flavor  of  the  old  romances  and  the 
old  comedy  still  hangs  about  them.  They  are  chatty 
and  confidential  to  a  degree  that  appalls  a  stiff  and 
formal  Englishman  of  the  upper  middle  class.  The 
British  servant  is  a  chilly  and  statuesque  image  of 
propriety.  The  French  is  an  intelligent  and  sympa- 
thizing friend.  You  can  make  of  him  what  you 
like.  But  the  Italian,  and  stiU  more  the  Spaniard, 
is  as  gay  as  a  child,  and  as  incapable  of  intentional 
disrespect.  The  Castilian  grandee  does  not  regard 
his  dignity  as  in  danger  from  a  moment's  chat  with 
a  waiter.  He  has  no  conception  of  that  ferocious 
decorum  we  Anglo-Saxons  require  from  our  man- 
servants and  our  maid-servants.  The  Spanish  ser- 
vant seems  to  regard  it  as  part  of  his  duty  to  keep 


42  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

your  spirits  gently  excited  while  you  dine  by  the 
gossip  of  the  day.  He  joins  also  in  your  discus- 
sions, whether  they  touch  lightly  on  the  politics  of 
the  hour  or  plunge  profoundly  into  the  depths  of 
philosophic  research.  He  laughs  at  your  wit,  and 
swings  his  napkin  with  convulsions  of  mirth  at 
your  good  stories.  He  tells  you  the  history  of  his 
life  while  you  are  breaking  your  egg,  and  lays  the 
story  of  his  loves  before  you  with  your  coffee.  Yet 
he  is  not  intrusive.  He  will  chatter  on  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  and  when  you  are  tired  of  him 
you  can  shut  him  off  with  a  word.  There  are  few 
Spanish  servants  so  uninteresting  but  that  you  can 
find  in  them  from  time  to  time  some  sparks  of  that 
ineffable  light  which  shines  forever  in  Sancho  and 
Figaro. 

The  traditions  of  subordination,  which  are  the 
result  of  long  centuries  of  tyranny,  have  prevented 
the  development  of  that  feeling  of  independence 
among  the  lower  orders,  which  in  a  freer  race  finds 
its  expression  in  ill  manners  and  discourtesy  to 
I  \  superiors.  I  knew  a  gentleman  in  the  West  whose 
circumstances  had  forced  him  to  become  a  waiter  in 
a  backwoods  restaurant.  He  bore  a  deadly  grudge 
at  the  profession  that  kept  him  from  starving,  and 
asserted  his  unconquered  nobility  of  soul  by  scowl- 
ing at  his  customers  and  swearing  at  the  viands  he 
dispensed.  I  remember  the  deep  sense  of  wrong 
with  which  he  would  growl,  "  Two  buckwheats,  be- 


rr 


SPANISH   LIVING   AND   DYING.  43 

gawd  ! "  You  see  nothing  of  this  defiant  spirit  in 
Spanish  servants.  They  are  heartily  glad  to  find 
employment,  and  ask  no  higher  good-fortune  than 
to  serve  acceptably.  As  to  drawing  comparisons 
between  themselves  and  their  masters,  they  never 
seem  to  think  they  belong  to  the  same  race.  I  saw 
a  pretty  grisette  once  stop  to  look  at  a  show-window 
where  there  was  a  lay-figure  completely  covered 
with  all  manner  of  trusses.  She  gazed  at  it  long 
and  earnestly,  evidently  thinking  it  was  some  new 
fashion  just  introduced  into  the  gay  world.  At  last 
she  tripped  away  with  all  the  grace  of  her  unfet- 
tered limbs,  saying,  "  If  the  fine  ladies  have  to  wear 
all  those  machines,  I  am  glad  I  am  not  made  like 
them." 

Whether  it  be  from  their  more  regular  and  active 
lives,  or  from  their  being  unable  to  pay  for  medical 
attendance,  the  poorer  classes  suffer  less  from  sick- 
ness than  their  betters.  An  ordinary  Spaniard  iT 
sick  but  once  in  his  life,  and  that  once  is  enough,  — 
't  will  serve.  The  traditions  of  the  old  satires  which 
represented  the  doctor  and  death  as  always  hunting 
in  couples  still  survive  in  Spain.  It  is  taken  as  so 
entirely  a  matter  of  course  that  a  patient  must  die, 
that  the  law  of  the  land  imposed  a  heavy  fine  upon 
physicians  who  did  not  bring  a  priest  on  their  sec- 
ond visit.  His  labor  of  exhortation  and  confession 
was  rarely  wasted.  There  were  few  sufferers  who 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  tnat  solemn  ceremony 


44  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

in  their  chambers.  Medical  science  still  labors  in 
Spain  under  the  ban  of  ostracism,  imposed  in  the 
days  when  all  research  was  impiety.  The  Inquisi- 
tion clamored  for  the  blood  of  Vesalius,  who  had 
committed  the  crime  of  a  demonstration  in  anatomy. 
He  was  forced  into  a  pilgrimage  of  expiation,  and 
died  on  the  way  to  Palestine.  The  Church  has  al- 
ways looked  with  a  jealous  eye  upon  the  inquirers, 
the  innovators.  Why  these  probes,  these  lancets, 
these  multifarious  drugs,  when  the  object  in  view 
could  be  so  much  more  easily  obtained  by  the  judi- 
cious application  of  masses  and  prayers  ? 

So  it  has  come  about  that  the  doctor  is  a  Pariah, 
and  miracles  flourish  in  the  Peninsula.  At  every 
considerable  shrine  you  will  see  the  walls  covered 
with  waxen  models  of  feet,  legs,  hands,  and  arms 
cured  by  the  miraculous  interposition  of  the  geniiis 
loci,  and  scores  of  little  crutches  attesting  the  mar- 
vellous hour  when  they  became  useless.  Each 
shrine,  like  a  mineral  spring,  has  its  own  especial 
virtue.  A  Santiago  medal  was  better  than  quinine 
for  ague.  St.  Veronica's  handkerchief  is  sovereign 
for  sore  eyes.  A  bone  of  St.  Magin  supersedes  the 
use  of  mercury.  A  finger-nail  of  San  Frutos  cured 
at  Segovia  a  case  of  congenital  idiocy.  The  Virgin 
of  Ona  acted  as  a  vermifuge  on  royal  infantas,  and 
her  girdle  at  Tortosa  smooths  their  passage  into  this 
world.  In  this  age  of  imfaith  relics  have  lost  much 
of  their  power.     They  turn  out  their  score  or  so  of 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  45 

miracles  every  feast  day,  it  is  true,  but  are  no  longer 
capable  of  the  tours  de  force  of  earlier  days.  Car- 
dinal de  Eetz  saw  with  his  eyes  a  man  whose  wooden 
legs  were  turned  to  capering  flesh  and  blood  by  the 
image  of  the  Pillar  of  Saragossa.  But  this  was  in 
the  good  old  times  before  newspapers  and  telegraphs 
had  come  to  dispel  the  twilight  of  belief. 

Now,  it  is  excessively  probable  that  neither  doc- 
tor nor  priest  can  do  much  if  the  patient  is  hit  in 
earnest.  He  soon  succumbs,  and  is  laid  out  in  his 
best  clothes  in  an  improvised  chapel  and  duly 
sped  on  his  way.  The  custom  of  burying  the  dead 
in  the  gown  and  cowl  of  monks  has  greatly  passed 
into  disuse.  The  mortal  relics  are  treated  with 
growing  contempt,  as  the  superstitions  of  the  peo- 
ple gradually  lose  their  concrete  character.  The 
soul  is  the  important  matter  which  the  Church  now 
looks  to.  So  the  cold  clay  is  carted  off  to  the 
cemetery  with  small  ceremony.  Even  the  coffins 
of  the  rich  are  jammed  away  into  receptacles  too 
small  for  them,  and  hastily  plastered  out  of  sight. 
The  poor  are  carried  off  on  trestles  and  huddled  into 
their  nameless  graves,  without  following  or  blessing. 
Children  are  buried  with  some  regard  to  the  old 
Oriental  customs.  The  coffin  is  of  some  gay  and 
cheerful  color,  pink  or  blue,  and  is  carried  open  to 
the  grave  by  four  of  the  dead  child's  young  com- 
panions, a  fifth  walking  behind  with  the  ribboned 
coffin-lid.     I  have  often  seen  these  touching  little 


46  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

parties  moving  through  the  bustling  streets,  the 
peaceful  small  face  asleep  under  the  open  sky,  decked 
with  the  fading  roses  and  withering  lilies. 

In  all  well-to-do  families  the  house  of  death  is 
deserted  immediately  after  the  funeral.  The  stricken 
ones  retire  to  some  other  habitation,  and  there  pass 
eight  days  in  strict  and  inviolable  seclusion.  On 
the  ninth  day  the  great  masses  for  the  repose  of  the 
soul  of  the  departed  are  said  in  the  parish  church, 
and  all  the  friends  of  the  family  are  expected  to  be 
present.  The^  masses  are  the  most  important  and 
expensive  incident  of  the  funeral.  They  cost  from 
two  hundred  to  one  thousand  dollars,  according  to 
the  strength  and  fervor  of  the  orisons  employed. 
They  are  repeated  several  years  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  decease,  and  afford  a  most  sure  and  flourish- 
ing revenue  to  the  Church.  They  are  founded  upon 
those  feelings  inseparable  from  every  human  heart, 
vanity  and  affection.  Our  dead  friends  must  be  as 
well  prayed  for  as  those  of  others,  and  who  knows 
but  that  they  may  be  in  deadly  need  of  prayers  !  To 
shorten  their  fiery  penance  by  one  hour,  who  would 
not  fast  for  a  week  ?  On  these  anniversaries  a 
black-bordered  advertisement  appears  in  the  news- 
papers, headed  by  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  the 
Requiescat  in  Pace,  announcing  that  on  this  day 
twelve  months  Don  Fulano  de  Tal  passed  from 
earth  garnished  with  the  holy  sacraments,  that  all 
"^he  masses  this  day  celebrated  in  such  and  such 


SPANISH  LIVING  AND  DYING.  47 

churches  will  be  applied  to  the  benefit  of  his  spirit's 
repose,  and  that  all  Christian  friends  are  hereby  re- 
quested to  commend  his  soul  this  day  unto  God. 
These  efforts,  if  they  do  the  dead  no  good,  at  least 
do  the  living  no  harm. 

A  luxury  of  grief,  in  those  who  can  afford  it,  con- 
sists in  shutting  up  the  house  where  a  death  has 
taken  place  and  never  suffering  it  to  be  opened 
again.  I  once  saw  a  beautiful  house  and  wide  gar- 
den thus  abandoned  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable 
streets  of  Madrid.     I  inquired  about  it,  and  found 

it  was  formerly  the  residence  of  the  Duke  of . 

His  wife  had  died  there  many  years  before,  and 
since  that  day  not  a  door  nor  a  window  had  been 
opened.  The  garden  gates  were  red  and  rough  with 
rust.  Grass  grew  tall  and  rank  in  the  gravelled 
walks.  A  thick  lush  undergrowth  had  overrun  the 
flower-beds  and  the  lawns.  The  blinds  were  rotting 
over  the  darkened  windows.  Luxuriant  vines  clam- 
bered over  all  the  mossy  doors.  The  stucco  was 
peeling  from  the  walls  in  unwholesome  blotches. 
Wild  birds  sang  all  day  in  the  safe  solitude.  There 
was  something  impressive  in  this  spot  of  mould  and 
silence,  lying  there  so  green  and  implacable  in  the 
very  heart  of  a  great  and  noisy  city.  The  Duke 
lived  in  Paris,  leading  the  rattling  life  of  a  man  of 
the  world.  He  never  would  sell  or  let  that  Madrid 
house.  Perhaps  in  his  heart  also,  that  battered 
thoroughfare  worn  by  the  pattering  boots  of  Ma- 


48  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

bille  and  the  Bois,  and  the  Quartier  Breda,  there 
was  a  green  spot  sacred  to  memory  and  silence, 
where  no  footfall  should  ever  light,  where  no  living 
voice  should  ever  be  heard,  shut  out  from  the  world 
and  its  cares  and  its  pleasures,  where  through  the 
gloom  of  dead  days  he  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  a 
white  hand,  a  flash  of  a  dark  eye,  the  rustle  of  a 
trailing  robe,  and  feel  sweeping  over  him  the  old 
magic  of  love's  young  dream,  softening  his  fancy  to 
tender  regret  and  his  eyes  to  a  happy  mist, 

"  Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain." 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       49 


INFLUENCE  OF  TKADITION  IN  SPANISH 
LIFE. 

Intelligent  Spaniards  with  whom  I  have  con-  I 
versed  on  political  matters  have  often  exclaimed, 
"  Ah,  you  Americans  are  happy  !  you  have  no  tra- 
ditions." The  phrase  was  at  first  a  puzzling  one. 
We  Americans  are  apt  to  think  we  have  traditions, 
—  a  rather  clearly  marked  line  of  precedents. 
And  it  is  hard  to  see  how  a  people  should  be 
happier  without  them.  It  is  not  anywhere  con- 
sidered a  misfortune  to  have  had  a  grandfather,  I 
believe,  and  some  very  good  folks  take  an  inno- 
cent pride  in  that  very  natural  fact.  It  was  not 
easy  to  conceive  why  the  possession  of  a  glorious 
history  of  many  centuries  should  be  regarded  as 
a  drawback.  But  a  closer  observation  of  Spanish 
life  and  thought  reveals  the  curious  and  hurtful 
effect  of  tradition  upon  every  phase  of  existence. 

In  the  commonest  events  of  every  day  you  will 
find  the  flavor  of  past  ages  lingering  in  petty  an- 
noyances. The  insecurity  of  the  middle  ages  has 
left  as  a  legacy  to  our  times  a  complicated  system 
of  obstacles  to  a  man  getting  into  his  own  house  at 

3  O 


60  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Il  night.  I  lived  in  a  pleasant  house  on  the  Prado, 
with  a  minute  garden  in  front,  and  an  iron  gate  and 
railing.  This  gate  was  shut  and  locked  by  the 
night  watchman  of  the  quarter  at  midnight,  —  so 
conscientiously  that  he  usually  had  everything  snug 
by  half  past  eleven.  As  the  same  man  had  charge 
of  a  dozen  or  more  houses,  it  was  scarcely  reason- 
able to  expect  him  to  be  always  at  your  own  gate 
when  you  arrived.  But  by  a  singular  fatality  I 
think  no  man  ever  found  him  in  sight  at  any  hour. 
He  is  always  opening  some  other  gate  or  shutting 
some  other  door,  or  settling  the  affairs  of  the  nation 
with  a  friend  in  the  next  block,  or  carrying  on  a 
chronic  courtship  at  the  lattice  of  some  olive- 
cheeked  soubrette  around  the  corner.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  no  one  ever  found  hjm  on  hand  ;  and  there 
is  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  down  on  the  curbstone 
and  lift  up  your  voice  and  shriek  for  him  until  he 
comes.  At  two  o'clock  of  a  morning  in  January 
the  exercise  is  not  improving  to  the  larynx  or  the 
temper.  There  is  a  tradition  in  the  very  name  of 
this  worthy.  He  is  called  the  Sereno,  because  a 
century  or  so  ago  he  used  to  call  the  hour  and  the 
state  of  the  weather,  and  as  the  sky  is  almost  al- 
ways cloudless  here,  he  got  the  name  of  the  Sereno, 
as  the  quail  is  called  Bob  White,  from  much  itera- 
tion. The  Sereno  opens  your  gate  and  the  door  of 
four  house.  When  you  come  to  your  own  floor  you 
must  ring,  and  your  servant  takes  a  careful  survey 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        51 

of  you  through  a  latticed  peep-hole  before  he  will 
let  you  in.  You  may  positively  forbid  this  every 
day  in  the  year,  but  the  force  of  habit  is  too  strong 
in  the  Spanish  mind  to  sufifer  amendment. 

This  absurd  custom  comes  evidently  down  from 
a  time  of  great  lawlessness  and  license,  when  no 
houses  were  secure  without  these  precautions,  when 
people  rarely  stirred  from  their  doors  after  night- 
fall, and  when  a  door  was  never  opened  to  a 
stranger.  Now,  when  no  such  dangers  exist,  the 
annoying  and  senseless  habit  still  remains,  because 
no  one  dreams  of  changing  anything  which  their 
fathers  thought  proper.  Three  hundred  thousand 
people  in  Madrid  submit  year  after  year  to  this 
nightly  cross,  and  I  have  never  heard  a  voice  raised 
in  protest,  nor  even  in  defence  of  the  custom. 

There  is  often  a  bitterness  of  opposition  to  evi- 
dent improvement  which  is  hard  to  explain.  In 
the  last  century,  when  the  eminent  naturalist 
Bowles  went  down  to  the  Almaden  silver-mines, 
by  appointment  of  the  government,  to  see  what 
was  the  cause  of  their  exhaustion,  he  found  that 
they  had  been  worked  entirely  in  perpendicular 
shafts  instead  of  following  the  direction  of  the 
veins.  He  perfected  a  plan  for  working  them  in 
this  simple  and  reasonable  way,  and  no  earthly 
power  could  make  the  Spanish  miners  obey  his  or- 
ders. There  was  no  precedent  for  this  new  process, 
and  they  would  not  touch  it.     They  preferred  star- 


52  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

vation  rather  than  offend  the  memory  of  their 
fathers  by  a  change.  At  last  they  had  to  be  dis- 
missed and  a  full  force  imported  from  Germany, 
under  whose  hands  the  mines  became  instantly 
enormously  productive. 

I  once  asked  a  very  intelligent  English  contractor 
why  he  used  no  wheelbarrows  in  his  work.  He  had 
some  hundreds  of  stalwart  navvies  employed  car- 
rying dirt  in  small  wicker  baskets  to  an  embank- 
ment. He  said  the  men  would  not  use  them. 
Some  said  it  broke  their  backs.  Others  discovered 
a  capital  way  of  amusing  themselves  by  putting 
the  barrow  on  their  heads  and  whirling  the  wheel  as 
rapidly  as  possibly  with  their  hands.  This  was  a 
game  which  never  grew  stale.  The  contractor  gave 
up  in  despair  and  went  back  to  the  baskets. 

But  it  is  in  the  official  regions  that  tradition  is 
most  powerful.  In  the  Budget  of  1870  there  was  a 
curious  chapter  called  "  Charges  of  Justice."  This 
consisted  of  a  collection  of  articles  appropriating 
large  sums  of  money  for  the  payment  of  feudal 
taxes  to  the  great  aristocracy  of  the  kingdom  as  a 
compensation  for  long  extinct  seignories.  The  Duke 
of  Eivas  got  thirteen  hundred  dollars  for  carrying 
the  mail  to  Victoria.  The  Duke  of  San  Carlos  draws 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  carrying  the  royal  corre- 
spondence to  the  Indies.  Of  course  this  service 
ceased  to  belong  to  these  families  some  centuries 
ago,  but  the  salary  is  still  paid.     The  Duke  of  Al- 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        63 

modovar  is  well  paid  for  supplying  the  haton  of 
office  to  the  Alguazil  of  Cordova.  The  Duke  of^ 
Osuna  —  one  of  the  greatest  grandees  of  the  king- 
dom, a  gentleman  who  has  the  right  to  wear  seven- 
teen hats  in  the  presence  of  the  Queen  —  receives 
fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  imaginary  feudal 
services.  The  Count  of  Altamira,  who,  as  his  nam§A 
indicates,  is  a  gentleman  of  high  views,  receives  as 
a  salve  for  the  suppression  of  his  fief  thirty  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year.  In  consideration  of  this  sum 
he  surrenders,  while  it  is  punctually  paid,  the  privi- 
lege of  hanging  his  neighbors. 

When  the  Budget  was  discussed,  a  Eepublican 
member  gently  criticised  this  chapter ;  but  his 
amendment  for  an  investigation  of  these  Charges 
was  indignantly  rejected.  He  was  accused  of  a 
shocking  want  of  Espaiiolismo.  He  was  thought  to 
have  no  feeling  in  his  heart  for  the  glories  of  Spain. 
The  respectability  of  the  Chamber  could  find  but  one 
word  injurious  enough  to  express  their  contempt  for 
so  shameless  a  proposition;  they  said  it  was  little 
better  than  socialism.  The  "Charges"  were  all 
voted.  Spain,  tottering  on  the  perilous  verge  of 
bankruptcy,  her  schoolmasters  not  paid  for  months, 
her  sinking  fund  plundered,  her  credit  gone  out  of 
sight,  borrowing  every  cent  she  spends  at  thirty  per 
cent,  is  proud  of  the  privilege  of  paying  into  the 
hands  of  her  richest  and  most  useless  class  this 
gratuity  of  twelve  million  reals  simply  because  they 


54  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

are  descended  from  the  robber  chiefs  of  the  darker 
ages. 

There  is  a  curious  little  comedy  played  by  the 
family  of  Medina  Celi  at  every  new  coronation  of 
a  king  of  Spain.  The  Duke  claims  to  be  the  right- 
ful heir  to  the  throne.  He  is  descended  from  Prince 
Ferdinand,  who,  dying  before  his  father,  Don  Alon- 
so  X.,  left  his  babies  exposed  to  the  cruel  kindness 
of  their  uncle  Sancho,  who,  to  save  them  the 
troubles  of  the  throne,  assumed  it  himself  and 
transmitted  it  to  his  children,  —  all  this  some  half- 
dozen  centuries  ago.  At  every  coronation  the  Duke 
formally  protests ;  an  athletic  and  sinister-looking 
court  headsman  comes  down  to  his  palace  in  the 
Carrera  San  Geronimo,  and  by  threats  of  immediate 
decapitation  induces  the  Duke  to  sign  a  paper  ab- 
dicating his  rights  to  the  throne  of  all  the  Spains. 
The  Duke  eats  the  Bourbon  leek  with  inward  pro- 
fanity, and  feels  that  he  has  done  a  most  clever  and 
proper  thing.  This  performance  is  apparently  his 
only  object  and  mission  in  life.  This  one  sacrifice 
to  tradition  is  what  he  is  born  for. 

The  most  important  part  of  a  Spaniard's  signa- 
ture is  the  ruhrica,  or  flourish  with  which  it  closes. 
The  monarch's  hand  is  set  to  public  acts  exclusively 
by  this  parafe.  This  evidently  dates  from  the  time 
when  none  but  priests  could  write.  In  Madrid  the 
mule-teams  are  driven  tandem  through  the  wide 
streets,  because  this  was  necessary  in  the  ages  when 
the  streets  were  narrow. 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       55 

There  is  even  a  show  of  argument  sometimes 
to  justify  an  adherence  to  things  as  they  are. 
About  a  century  ago  there  was  an  effort  made  by 
people  who  had  lived  abroad,  and  so  become  con- 
scious of  the  possession  of  noses,  to  have  the  streets 
of  Madrid  cleaned.  The  proposition  was  at  first 
received  with  apathetic  contempt,  but  when  the 
innovators  persevered  they  met  the  earnest  and 
successful  opposition  of  all  classes.  The  Castilian 
savans  gravely  reported  that  the  air  of  Madrid, 
which  blew  down  from  the  snowy  Guadarramas, 
was  so  thin  and  piercing  that  it  absolutely  needed 
the  gentle  corrective  of  the  ordure-heaps  to  make 
it  fit  for  human  lungs. 

There  is  no  nation  in  Europe  in  which  so  little 
washing  is  done.     I  do  not .  think  it  is  because  the 
Spaniards  do  not  want  to  be  neat.    They  are,  on  the 
whole,  the  best-dressed  people  on  the  Continent. 
The  hate  of  ablutions  descends  from  those  centuries   I 
of  warfare  with  the  Moors.     The  heathens  washed 
themselves    daily ;    therefore    a   Christian    should 
not.     The  monks,   who  were  too  lazy  to  bathe, 
taught  their  followers  to  be  filthy  by  precept  and  . 
example.     Water  was  never  to  be  applied  exter-/J 
nally  except  in  baptism.     It  was  a  treacherous  ele- 
ment, and  dallying  with  it  had  gotten  Bathsheba 
and  Susanna  into  no  end  of  trouble.     So  when  the 
cleanly  infidels  were  driven  out  of  Granada,  the 
pious  and  hydrophobic  Cardinal  Ximenez  persuaded 


r 


56  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  Catholic  sovereigns  to  destroy  the  abomination 
of  baths  they  left  behind.  Until  very  recently  the 
Spanish  mind  has  been  unable  to  separate  a  certain 
idea  of  immorality  from  bathing.  When  Madame 
Daunoy,  one  of  the  sprightliest  of  observers,  visited 
the  court  of  Philip  IV.,  she  found  it  was  considered 
shocking  among  the  ladies  of  the  best  society  to 
wash  the  face  and  hands.  Once  or  twice  a  week 
they  would  glaze  their  pretty  visages  with  the  white 
of  an  egg.  Of  late  years  this  prejudice  has  given 
way  somewhat ;  but  it  has  lasted  longer  than  any 
monument  in  Spain. 

These,  however,  are  but  trivial  manifestations  of 
that  power  of  tradition  which  holds  the  Spanish 
intellect  imprisoned  as  in  a  vice  of  iron.  The 
whole  life  of  the  nation  is  fatally  influenced  by  this 
blind  reverence  for  things  that  have  been.  It  may 
be  said  that  by  force  of  tradition  Christian  morality 
has  been  driven  from  individual  life  by  religion,  and 
honesty  has  been  supplanted  as  a  rule  of  public 
conduct  by  honor,  —  a  wretched  substitute  in  either 
case,  and  irreconcilably  at  war  with  the  spirit  of 
the  age. 

The  growth  of  this  double  fanaticism  is  easily 
explained  ;  it  is  the  result  of  centuries  of  religious 
wars.  From  the  hour  when  Pelayo,  the  first  of  the 
Asturian  kings,  successfully  met  and  repulsed  the 
hitherto  victorious  Moors  in  his  rocky  fortress  of 
Covadonga,  to  the  day  when  Boabdil  the  Unlucky 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       57 

saw  for  the  last  time  through  streaming  tears  the 
vermilion  towers  of  Alhambra  crowned  with  the 
banner  of  the  cross,  there  was  not  a  year  of  peace 
in  Spain.  No  other  nation  has  had  such  an  ex- 
perience. Seven  centuries  of  constant  warfare,  with 
three  thousand  battles ;  this  is  the  startling  epitome 
of  Spanish  history  from  the  Mahometan  conquest 
to  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  In  this 
vast  war  there  was  laid  the  foundation  of  the  na- 
tional character  of  to-day. 

Even  before  the  conquering  Moslem  crossed  from 
Africa,  Spain  was  the  most  deeply  religious  country 
in  Europe  ;  and  by  this  I  mean  the  country  in  which 
the  Church  was  most  powerful  in  its  relations  with 
the  state.  When  the  Council  of  Toledo,  in  633, 
received  the  King  of  Castile,  he  fell  on  his  face  at 
the  feet  of  the  bishops  before  venturing  to  address 
them.  When  the  hosts  of  Islam  had  overspread 
the  Peninsula,  and  the  last  remnant  of  Christianity 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  inaccessible  hills  of  the 
northwest,  the  richest  possession  they  carried  into 
these  inviolate  fastnesses  was  a  chest  of  relics,  — - 
knuckle-bones  of  apostles  and  splinters  of  true 
crosses,  in  which  they  trusted  more  than  in  mortal 
arms.  The  Church  had  thus  a  favorable  material 
to  work  upon  in  the  years  of  struggle  that  followed. 
The  circumstances  all  lent  themselves  to  the  scheme 
of  spiritual  domination.  The  fight  was  for  the  cross 
against  the  crescent ;  the  symbol  of  the  quarrel  was 
3* 


58  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

visible  and  tangible.  The  Spaniards  were  poor  and 
ignorant  and  credulous.  The  priests  were  enough 
superior  to  lead  and  guide  them,  and  not  so  far  above 
them  as  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  their  sympathies 
and  their  love.  They  marched  with  them.  They 
shared  their  toils  and  dangers.  They  stimulated 
their  hate  of  the  enemy.  They  taught  them  that 
their  cruel  anger  was  the  holy  wrath  of  God.  They 
held  the  keys  of  eternal  weal  or  woe,  and  rewarded 
subservience  to  the  priestly  power  with  promises  of 
everlasting  felicity  ;  while  the  least  symptom  of  re- 
bellion in  thought  or  action  was  punished  with 
swift  death  and  the  doom  of  endless  flames.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  Church  which  the  fighting 
Spaniard  could  recognize  as  a  reproach  to  himself. 
It  was  as  bitter,  as  brave,  as  fierce,  and  revengeful 
as  he.  His  credulity  regarded  it  as  divine,  and  wor- 
thy of  blind  adoration,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  it 
with  the  sjrmpathy  of  perfect  love. 

In  these  centuries  of  war  there  was  no  com- 
merce, no  manufactures,  no  settled  industry  of  im- 
portance among  the  Spaniards.  There  was  conse- 
quently no  wealth,  none  of  that  comfort  and  ease 
which  is  the  natural  element  of  doubt  and  discus- 
sion. Science  did  not  exist.  The  little  learning 
of  the  time  was  exclusively  in  the  hands  of  the 
priesthood.  If  from  time  to  time  an  intelligent 
spirit  struggled  against  the  chain  of  unquestioning 
bigotry  that  bound  him,  he  was  rigorously  silenced 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        59 

by  prompt  and  bloody  punishment.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  need  of  discussion,  no  need  of  inculcation 
of  doctrine.  The  serious  work  of  the  time  was  the 
war  with  the  infidel.  The  clergy  managed  every- 
thing. The  question,  "What  shall  I  do  to  be 
saved  ?  "  never  entered  into  those  simple  and  igno- 
rant minds.  The  Church  would  take  care  of  those 
who  did  her  bidding. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  hammering  of  those 
struggling  ages  the  nation  became  welded  together 
in  one  compact  mass  of  unquestioning,  unreasoning 
faith,  which  the  Church  could  manage  at  its  own 
good  pleasure. 

It  was  also  in  these  times  that  Spanish  honor 
took  its  rise.  This  sentiment  is  so  nearly  con- 
nected with  that  of  personal  loyalty  that  they  may 
be  regarded  as  phases  of  the  same  monarchical  spirit. 
The  rule  of  honor  as  distinguished  from  honesty 
and  virtue  is  the  most  prominent  characteristic 
of  monarchy,  and  for  that  reason  the  political 
theorists  from  the  time  of  Montesquieu  have  pro- 
nounced in  favor  of  the  monarchy  as  a  more  prac- 
ticable form  of  government  than  the  republic,  as  re- 
quiring a  less  perfect  and  delicate  machinery,  men 
of  honor  being  far  more  common  than  men  of 
virtue.  As  in  Spain,  owing  to  special  conditions, 
monarchy  attained  the  most  perfect  growth  and  de- 
velopment which  the  world  has  seen,  the  sentiment 
of  honor,  as  a  rule  of  personal  and  political  action. 


rr 


h 


60  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

has  there  reached  its  most  exaggerated  form.  I  use 
this  word,  of  course,  in  its  restricted  meaning  of  an 
intense  sense  of  personal  dignity,  and  readiness  to 
sacrifice  for  this  all  considerations  of  interest  and 
morality. 

This  phase  of  the  Spanish  character  is  probably 
derived  in  its  germ  from  the  Gothic  blood  of  their 
ancestors.  Their  intense  self-assertion  has  been  in 
the  Northern  races,  modified  by  the  progress  of  in- 
telligence and  the  restraints  of  municipal  law  into 
a  spirit  of  sturdy  self-respect  and  a  disinclination 
to  submit  to  wrong.  The  Goths  of  Spain  have  un- 
fortunately never  gone  through  this  civilizing  pro- 
cess. Their  endless  wars  never  gave  an  opportunity 
for  the  development  of  the  purely  civic  virtues  of 
respect  and  obedience  to  law.  The  people  at  large 
were  too  wretched,  too  harried  by  constant  com- 
ing and  going  of  the  waves  of  war,  to  do  more  than 
live,  in  a  shiftless,  hand-to-mouth  way,  from  the  pro- 
ceeds of  their  flocks  and  herds.  There  were  no 
cities  of  importance  within  the  Spanish  Hnes. 
There  was  no  opportunity  for  the  growth  of  the 
true  burgher  spirit. 

There  was  no  law  to  speak  of  in  all  these  years 
except  the  twin  despotism  of  the  Church  and  the 
King.  If  there  had  been  dissidence  between  them 
it  might  have  been  better  for  the  people.  But  up 
to  late  years  there  has  never  been  a  quarrel  be- 
tween the  clergy  and  the  Crown.     Their  interests 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       61 

were  so  identified  that  the  dual  tyranny  was  strong- 
er than  even  a  single  one  could  have  been.  The 
Crown  always  lending  to  the  Church  when  neces- 
sary the  arm  of  flesh,  and  the  Church  giving  to  the 
despotism  of  the  sceptre  the  sanction  of  spiritual 
authority,  an  absolute  power  was  established  over 
body  and  soul.  /T) 

The  spirit  of  individual  independence  inseparable 
from  Gothic  blood  being  thus  forced  out  of  its  natu- 
ral channels  of  freedom  of  thought  and  municipal 
liberty,  it  remained  in  the  cavaliers  of  the  army  of 
Spain  in  the  same  barbarous  form  which  it  had  held 
in  the  Northern  forests,  —  a  physical  self-esteem,  and 
a  readiness  to  fight  on  the  slightest  provocation.  [  r 
This  did  not  interfere  with  the  designs  of  the^ 
Church,  and  was  rather  a  useful  engine  against  its 
enemies.  The  absolute  power  of  the  Crown  kept 
the  spirit  of  feudal  arrogance  in  check  while  the 
pressure  of  a  common  danger  existed.  The  close 
cohesion  which  was  so  necessary  in  camp  and 
Church  prevented  the  tendency  to  disintegration, 
while  the  right  of  life  and  death  was  freely  exer- 
cised by  the  great  lords  on  their  distant  estates 
without  interference. 

The  predominating  power  of  the  Crown  was  too 
great  and  too  absolute  to  result  in  the  establish- 
ment of  any  fixed  principle  of  obedience  to  law. 
The  union  of  crozier  and  sceptre  had  been,  if  any- 
thing, too  successful     The  King  was  so  far  above 


62  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  nobility  that  there  was  no  virtue  in  obeying 
him.  His  commission  was  divine,  and  he  was  no 
more  confined  by  human  laws  than  the  stars  and 
the  comets.  The  obedience  they  owed  and  paid 
him  was  not  respect  to  law.  It  partook  of  the 
character  of  religious  worship,  and  left  untouched 
and  untamed  in  their  savage  hearts  the  instinct  of 
resistance  to  all  earthly  claims  of  authority. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  the  public  spirit  of 
Spain  at  the  beginning  of  that  wonderful  series  of 
reigns  from  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  to  their  great- 
grandson  Philip  II.,  which  in  less  than  a  century 
raised  Spain  to  the  summit  of  greatness  and  built 
up  a  realm  on  which  the  sun  never  set.  All  the 
events  of  these  prodigious  reigns  contributed  to  in- 
crease and  intensify  the  national  traits  to  which  we 
have  referred.  The  discovery  of  America  flooded 
Europe  with  gold,  and  making  the  better  class  of 
Spaniards  the  richest  people  in  the  world*  naturally 
heightened  their  pride  and  arrogance.  The  long 
and  eventful  religious  wars  of  Charles  Y.  and  Philip 
II.  gave  employment  and  distinction  to  thousands 
of  families  whose  vanity  was  nursed  by  the  royal 
favor,  and  whose  ferocious  self-will  was  fed  and 
pampered  by  the  blood  of  heretics  and  the  spoil  of 
rebels. 

The  national  qualities  of  superstition  and  pride 
made  the  whole  cavalier  class  a  wieldy  and  effective 
weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  monarch,  and  the  use 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       63 

he  made  of  them  reacted  upon  these  very  traits, 
intensifying  and  affirming  them.^ 

So  terrible  was  this  absolute  command  of  the 
spiritual  and  physical  forces  of  the  kingdom  pos- 
sessed by  the  monarchs  of  that  day,  that  when  the 
Keformation  flashed  out,  a  beacon  in  the  northern 
sky  of  political  and  religious  freedom  to  the  world, 
its  light  could  not  penetrate  into  Spain.  There  was 
a  momentary  struggle  there,  it  is  true.  But  so  apa- 
thetic was  the  popular  mind  that  the  effort  to  bring 
it  into  sympathy  with  the  vast  movement  of  the  age 
was  hopeless  from  the  beginning.  The  axe  and  the 
fagot  made  rapid  work  of  the  h.eresy.  After  only 
ten  years  of  burnings  and  beheadings  Philip  II. 
could  boast  that  not  a  heretic  lived  in  his  borders. 

Crazed  by  his  success  and  his  unquestioned  om- 
nipotence at  home,  and  drunken  with  the  delirious 
dream  that  God's  wrath  was  breathing  through  him 
upon  a  revolted  world,  he  essayed  to  crush  heresy 
throughout  Europe;  and  in  this  mad  and  awful 
crime  his  people  undoubtingly  seconded  him.  In 
this  he  failed,  the  stars  in  their  courses  fighting 
against  him,  the  God  that  his  worship  slandered 
taking  sides  against  him.  But  history  records  what 
rivers  of  blood  he  shed  in  the  long  and  desperate 
fight,  and  how  lovingly  and  adoringly  his  people 
sustained  him.  He  killed,  in  oold  blood,  some  forty 
thousand  harmless  people  for  their  faith,  besides  the 
vastly  greater  number  whose  lives  he  took  in  battla 


64  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Yet  this  horrible  monster,  who  is  blackened  with 
every  crime  at  which  humanity  shudders,  who  had 
no  grace  of  manhood,  no  touch  of  humanity,  no 
gleam  of  sympathy  which  could  redeem  the  gloomy 
picture  of  his  ravening  life,  was  beloved  and  wor- 
shipped as  few  men  have  been  since  the  world  has 
Btood.  The  common  people  mourned  him  at  his 
death  with  genuine  unpaid  sobs  and  tears.  They 
will  weep  even  yet  at  the  story  of  his  edifying 
death,  —  this  monkish  vampire  breathing  his  last 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  cross  of  the  mild  Naza- 
rene,  and  tormented  with  impish  doubts  as  to 
whether  he  had  drunk  blood  enough  to  fit  him  for 
the  company  of  the  just ! 

His  successors  rapidly  fooled  away  the  stupendous 
empire  that  had  filled  the  sixteenth  century  with 
its  glory.  Spain  sank  from  the  position  of  ruler  of 
the  world  and  queen  of  the  seas  to  the  place  of  a 
second-rate  power,  by  reason  of  the  weakening 
power  of  superstition  and  bad  government,  and 
because  the  people  and  the  chieftains  had  never 
learned  the  lesson  of  law. 

The  clergy  lost  no  tittle  of  their  power.  They 
went  on,  gayly  roasting  their  heretics  and  devouring 
the  substance  of  the  people,  more  prosperous  than 
ever  in  those  days  of  national  decadence.  Philip 
III.  gave  up  the  government  entirely  to  the  Duke 
of  Lerma,  who  formed  an  alliance  with  the  Church, 
and  they  led  together  a  joyous  life.     In  the  succeed- 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  ^.IFE.        65 

ing  reign  the  Church  had  become  such  a  gnawing 
cancer  upon  the  state  that  the  servile  Cortes  had 
the  pluck  to  protest  against  its  inroads.  There 
were  in  1626  nine  thousand  monasteries  for  men, 
besides  nunneries.  There  were  thirty-two  thousand 
Dominican  and  Franciscan  friars.  In  the  Diocese 
of  Seville  alone  there  were  fourteen  thousand  chap- 
lains. There  was  a  panic  in  the  land.  Every  one 
was  rushing  to  get  into  holy  orders.  The  Church 
had  all  the  bread.  Men  must  be  monks  or  starve. 
Zelibs  domus  tuce  comedit  me,  writes  the  British  am- 
bassador, detailing  these  facts. 

We  must  remember  that  this  was  the  age  when 
the  vast  modem  movement  of  inquiry  and  investi- 
gation was  beginning.     Bacon  was  laying  in  Eng- 
land the  foundations  of  philosophy,  casting  with  his 
prophetic   intelligence   the    horoscope    of    unborn^ 
sciences.     Descartes   was   opening  new  vistas   of    i 
thought  to  the  world.     But  in   Spain,  while  the 
greatest  names  of  her  literature  occur  at  this  time, 
they  aimed  at  no  higher  object  than  to  amuse  their 
betters.     Cervantes  wrote  Quixote,  but  he  died  in  a 
monk's  hood ;  and  Lope  de  Vega  was  a  familiar  of 
the  Inquisition.     The  sad  story  of  the  mind  of 
Spain  in  this  momentous  period  may  be  written  in 
one  word,  —  everybody   believed   and  nobody  in-  . 
quired.  -;j 

The  country  sank  fast  into  famine  and  anarchy. 
The  madness  of  the  monks  and  the  folly  of  the 


66  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

King  expelled  the  Moors  in  1609,  and  the  loss  of  a 
million  of  the  best  mechanics  and  farmers  of  Spain 
struck  the  nation  with  a  torpor  like  that  of  death. 
In  1650  Sir  Edward  Hyde  wrote  that  "  affairs  were 
in  huge  disorder."  People  murdered  each  other  foi 
a  loaf  of  bread.  The  marine  perished  for  want  of 
sailors.  In  the  stricken  land  nothing  flourished  but 
the  rabble  of  monks  and  the  royal  authority. 

This  is  the  curious  fact.  The  Church  and  the 
Crown  had  brought  them  to  this  misery,  yet  bet- 
ter than  their  lives  the  Spaniards  loved  the  Church 
and  the  Crown.  A  word  against  either  would  have 
cost  any  man  his  life  in  those  days.  The  old  al- 
liance still  hung  together  firmly.  The  Church 
bullied  and  dragooned  the  King  in  private,  but  it 
valued  his  despotic  power  too  highly  ever  to  slight 
it  in  public.  There  was  something  superhuman 
about  the  faith  and  veneration  with  which  the 
people,  and  the  aristocracy  as  well,  regarded  the 
person  of  the  King.  There  was  somewhat  of 
gloomy  and  ferocious  dignity  about  Philip  II.  which 
might  easily  bring  a  courtier  to  his  knees  ;  but  how 
can  we  account  for  the  equal  reverence  that  was 
paid  to  the  ninny  Philip  III.,  the  debauched  trifler 
Philip  IV.,  and  the  drivelling  idiot  Charles  II.  ? 

Yet  aU  of  these  were  invested  with  the  same 
attributes  of  the  divine.  Their  hands,  like  those 
of  Midas,  had  the  gift  of  making  anything  they 
touched  too  precious  for  mortal  use.     A  horse  they 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.       67 

had  mounted  could  never  be  ridden  again.  A 
woman  they  had  loved  must  enter  a  nunnery  when 
they  were  tired  of  her. 

When  Buckingham  came  down  to  Spain  with 
Charles  of  England,  the  Conde-Duque  of  Olivares 
was  shocked  and  scandalized  at  the  relation  of 
confidential  friendship  that  existed  between  the 
Prince  and  the  Duke.  The  world  never  saw  a 
prouder  man  than  OKvares.  His  picture  by  Ve- 
lazquez hangs  side  by  side  with  that  of  his  royal 
master  in  Madrid.  You  see  at  a  glance  that  the 
Count-Duke  is  the  better  man  physically,  mentally, 
morally.  But  he  never  dreamed  it.  He  thought 
in  his  inmost  heart  that  the  best  thing  about  him 
was  the  favor  of  the  worthless  fribble  whom  he 
governed. 

Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  Spanish  history 
the  force  of  these  married  superstitions  —  reverence 
for  the  Church  as  distinguished  from  the  fear  of 
God,  and  reverence  for  the  King  as  distinguished 
from  respect  for  law  —  have  been  the  ruling  charac- 
teristics of  the  Spanish  mind.  Among  the  fatal 
effects  of  this  has  been  the  extinction  of*  rational 
piety  and  rational  patriotism.  If  a  man  was  not  a 
good  Catholic  he  was  pretty  sure  to  be  an  Atheist. 
If  he  did  not  honor  the  King  he  was  an  outlaw. 
The  wretched  story  of  Spanish  dissensions  beyond 
seas,  and  the  loss  of  the  vast  American  empire,  is 
distinctly  traceable  to  the  exaggerated  sentiment  of 


68  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

personal  honor,  unrestrained  by  the  absolute  author- 
ity of  the  Crown.  It  seems  impossible  for  the 
Spaniard  of  history  and  tradition  to  obey  anything 
out  of  his  sight.  The  American  provinces  have 
been  lost  one  by  one  through  petty  quarrels  and 
colonial  rivalries.  At  the  first  word  of  dispute 
their  notion  of  honor  obliges  them  to  fly  to  arms, 
and  when  blood  has  been  shed  reconciliation  is 
impossible.  So  weak  is  the  principle  of  territo- 
rial loyalty,  that  whenever  the  Peninsular  govern- 
ment finds  it  necessary  to  overrule  some  violence  of 
its  own  soldiers,  these  find  no  difficulty  in  march- 
ing over  to  the  insurrection,  or  raising  a  fresh  rebel- 
lion of  their  own.  So  little  progress  has  there  been 
in  Spain  from  the  middle  ages  to  to-day  in  true 
political  science,  that  we  see  such  butchers  as  Ca- 
baUero  and  Valmaseda  repeating  to-day  the  crimes 
and  follies  of  Cortes  and  Pamfilo  Narvaez,  of  Pi- 
zarro  and  Almagro,  and  the  revolt  of  the  blood- 
thirsty volunteers  of  the  Havana  is  only  a  question 
of  time. 

It  is  true  that  in  later  years  there  has  been  the 
beginning  of  a  better  system  of  thought  and  discus- 
sion in  Spain.  But  the  old  tradition  stiU  holds  its 
own  gallantly  in  Church  and  State.  Nowhere  in 
the  world  are  the  forms  of  religion  so  rigidly  ob- 
served, and  the  precepts  of  Christian  morality  less 
regarded.  The  most  facile  beauties  in  Madrid  are 
severe  as  Minervas  on  Holy  Thursday.    I  have  seen 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        69 

a  dozen  fast  men  at  the  door  of  a  gambling-house  fall 
on  their  knees  in  the  dust  as  the  Host  passed  by  in 
the  street.  Yet  the  fair  were  no  less  frail,  and  the 
senoritos  were  no  less  profligate,  for  this  unfeigned 
reverence  for  the  outside  of  the  cup  and  platter. 

In  the  domain  of  politics  there  is  stiU.  the  lament- 
able disproportion  between  honor  and  honesty.  A 
high  functionary  cares  nothing  if  the  whole  Salon  del 
Prado  talks  of  his  pilferings,  but  he  will  risk  his  life 
in  an  instant  if  you  call  him  no  gentleman.  The  word 
"honor"  is  still  used  in  all  legislative  assemblies, 
even  in  England  and  America.  But  the  idea  has 
gone  by  the  board  in  all  democracies,  and  the  word 
means  no  more  than  the  chamberlain's  sword  or  the 
speaker's  mace.  The  only  criterion  which  the  states- 
man of  the  nineteenth  century  applies  to  public  acts 
is  that  of  expediency  and  legality.  The  first  ques- 
tion is, "  Is  it  lawful  ? "  the  second,  "  Does  it  pay  ? " 
Both  of  these  are  questions  of  fact,  and  as  such  sus- 
ceptible of  discussion  and  proof.  The  question  of 
honor  and  religion  carries  us  at  once  into  the  realm 
of  sentiment  where  no  demonstration  is  possible. 
But  this  is  where  every  question  is  planted  from 
the  beginning  in  Spanish  politics.  Every  public 
matter  presents  itself  under  this  form  :  "  Is  it  con- 
sistent with  Spanish  honor  ? "  and  "  Will  it  be  to 
the  advantage  of  the  Eoman  Catholic  Apostolic 
Church  ?  "  Now,  nothing  is  consistent  with  Span- 
ish honor  which  does  not  recognize  the  Spain  of  to- 


YO  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

day  as  identical  with  the  Spain  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  the  bankrupt  government  of  Madrid 
as  equal  in  authority  to  the  world-wide  autocracy 
of  Charles  V.  And  nothing  is  thought  to  be  to  the 
advantage  of  the  Church  which  does  not  tend  to 
the  concubinage  of  the  spiritual  and  temporal  power, 
and  to  the  muzzling  of  speech  and  the  drugging  of 
the  mind  to  sleep. 

Let  any  proposition  be  made  which  touches  this 
traditional  susceptibility  of  race,  no  matter  how 
sensible  or  profitable  it  may  be,  and  you  hear  in  the 
Cortes  and  the  Press,  and,  louder  than  all,  among 
the  idle  cavaliers  of  the  cafes,  the  wildest  denuncia- 
tions of  the  treason  that  would  consent  to  look  at 
things  as  they  are.  The  men  who  have  ventured  to 
support  the  common-sense  view  are  speedily  stormed 
into  silence  or  timid  self-defence.  The  sword  of 
Guzman  is  brandished  in  the  Chambers,  the  name 
of  Pelayo  is  invoked,  the  memory  of  the  Cid  is 
awakened,  and  the  proposition  goes  out  in  a  blaze 
of  patriotic  pyrotechnics,  to  the  intense  satisfaction 
of  the  unthinking  and  the  grief  of  the  judicious. 
The  seiioritos  go  back  to  the  serious  business  of  their 
lives,  —  coffee  and  cigarettes,  —  with  a  genuine 
glow  of  pride  in  a  country  which  is  capable  of  the 
noble  self-sacrifice  of  cutting  off  its  nose  to  spite 
somebody  else's  face. 

But  I  repeat,  the  most  favorable  sign  of  the  times 
is  that  this  tyranny  of  tradition  is  losing  its  power. 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        71 

A  great  deal  was  done  by  the  single  act  of  driving 
out  the  Queen.  This  was  a  blow  at  superstition 
which  gave  to  the  whole  body  politic  a  most  salu- 
tary shock.  Never  before  in  Spain  had  a  revolution 
been  directed  at  the  throne.  Before  it  was  always 
an  obnoxious  ministry  that  was  to  be  driven  out. 
The  monarch  remained ;  and  the  exiled  outlaw  of 
to-day  might  be  premier  to-morrow.  But  the  fall 
of  Novaliches  at  the  Bridge  of  Alcolea  decided  the 
fate  not  only  of  the  ministry  but  of  the  dynasty ; 
and  while  General  Concha  was  waiting  for  the  train 
to  leave  Madrid,  Isabel  of  Bourbon  and  divine  right 
were  passing  the  Pyrenees. 

Although  the  moral  power  of  the  Church  is  still 
so  great,  the  incorporation  of  freedom  of  worship 
in  the  Constitution  of  1869  has  been  followed 
by  a  really  remarkable  development  of  freedom  of 
thought.  The  proposition  was  regarded  by  some 
with  horror  and  by  others  with  contempt.  One  of 
the  most  enlightened  statesmen  in  Spain  once  said 
to  me,  "  The  provision  for  freedom  of  worship  in 
the  Constitution  is  a  mere  abstract  proposition,  — 
it  can  never  have  any  practical  value  except  for 
foreigners.  I  cannot  conceive  of  a  Spaniard  being 
anything  but  a  Catholic."  And  so  powerful  was 
this  impression  in  the  minds  of  the  Deputies  that 
the  article  only  accords  freedom  of  worship  to 
foreigners  in  Spain,  and  adds,  hypothetically,  that 
if  any  Spaniards  should  profess  any  other  religion 


72  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

than  the  Catholic,  they  are  entitled  to  the  same 
liberty  as  foreigners.  The  Inquisition  has  been 
dead  half  a  century,  but  you  can  see  how  its  ghost 
still  haunts  the  official  mind  of  Spain.  It  is  touch- 
ing to  see  how  the  broken  links  of  the  chain  of 
superstition  still  hang  about  even  those  who  im- 
agine they  are  defying  it.  As  in  their  Christian 
burials,  following  unwittingly  the  example  of  the 
hated  Moors,  they  bear  the  corpse  with  uncovered 
face  to  the  grave,  and  follow  it  with  the  funeral 
torch  of  the  Komans,  so  the  formula  of  the  Church 
clings  even  to  the  mummery  of  the  Atheists.  Not 
long  ago  in  Madrid  a  man  and  woman  who  be- 
longed to  some  fantastic  order  which  rejected  relig- 
ion and  law  had  a  child  born  to  them  in  the 
course  of  things,  and  determined  that  it  should 
begin  life  free  from  the  taint  of  superstition.  It 
should  not  be  christened,  it  should  be  named,  in 
the  Name  of  Eeason.  But  they  could  not  break 
loose  from  the  idea  of  baptism.  They  poured  a 
bottle  of  water  on  the  shivering  nape  of  the  poor 
little  neophyte,  and  its  frail  life  went  out  in  its  first 
wheezing  week. 

But  in  spite  of  all  this  a  spirit  of  religious  in- 
quiry is  growing  up  in  Spain,  and  the  Church  sees 
it  and  cannot  prevent  it.  It  watches  the  liberal 
newspapers  and  the  Protestant  prayer-meetings  much 
as  the  old  giant  in  Bunyan's  dream  glared  at  the 
passing  pilgrims,  mumbling  and  muttering  toothless 


INFLUENCE  OF  TRADITION  IN  SPANISH  LIFE.        73 

curses.  It  looks  as  if  the  dead  sleep  of  uniformity 
of  thought  were  to  be  broken  at  last,  and  Spain 
were  to  enter  the  healthful  and  vivifying  atmos- 
phere of  controversy. 

Symptoms  of  a  similar  change  may  be  seen  in  the 
world  of  politics.  The  Eepublican  party  is  only  a 
year  or  two  old,  but  what  a  vigorous  and  noisy  in- 
fant it  is !  With  all  its  faults  and  errors,  it  seems 
to  have  the  promise  of  a  sturdy  and  wholesome 
future.  It  refuses  to  be  bound  by  the  memories  of 
the  past,  but  keeps  its  eyes  fixed  on  the  brighter 
possibilities  to  come.  Its  journals,  undeterred  by 
the  sword  of  Guzman  or  the  honor  of  all  the 
Caballeros  —  the  men  on  horseback  —  are  advo- 
cating such  sensible  measures  as  justice  to  the 
Antilles,  and  the  sale  of  outlying  property,  which 
costs  more  than  it  produces.  Emilio  Castelar,  cast- 
ing behind  him  all  the  restraints  of  tradition,  an- 
nounces as  his  idea  of  liberty  "  the  right  of  aU  citi- 
zens to  obey  nothing  but  the  law."  There  is  no 
sounder  doctrine  than  this  preached  in  Manchester 
or  Boston.  If  the  Spanish  people  can  be  brought^ 
to  see  that  God  is  greater  than  the  Church,  and  that 
the  law  is  above'tEeking,  the  day  of  final  deliver- 
ance is  at  hand.  ^ 


74  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 


TAUKOMACHY. 

The  bull-fight  is  the  national  festival  of  Spain. 
The  rigid  Britons  have  had  their  fling  at  it  for 
many  years.  The  effeminate  hadaud  of  Paris  has  de- 
claimed against  its  barbarity.  Even  the  aristocracy 
of  Spain  has  begun  to  suspect  it  of  vulgarity  and 
to  withdraw  from  the  arena  the  light  of  its  noble 
countenance.  But  the  Spanish  people  still  hold  it 
to  their  hearts  and  refuse  to  be  weaned  from  it. 

'*  As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 
So  Pan  y  Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain." 

It  is  a  tradition  which  has  passed  into  their  national 
existence.  They  received  it  from  nowhere.  They 
have  transimitted  it  nowhither  except  to  their  own 
colonies.  In  late  years  an  effort  has  been  made  to 
transplant  it,  but  with  small  success.  There  were 
a  few  bull-fights  four  years  ago  at  Havre.  There 
was  a  sensation  of  curiosity  which  soon  died  away. 
This  year  in  London  the  experiment  was  tried,  but 
was  hooted  out  of  existence,  to  the  great  displeasure 
of  the  Spanish  journals,  who  said  the  ferocious 
Islanders  woTild  doubtless  greatly  prefer  baiting  to 
death  a  half-dozen  Irish  serfs  from  the  estate  of 


TAUROMACHY.  75 

Lord  Fritters,  —  a  gentle  diversion  in  which  we  are 
led  to  believe  the  British  peers  pass  their  leisure 
hours. 

It  is  this  monopoly  of  the  bull-fight  which  so 
endears  it  to  the  Spanish  heart.  It  is  to  them  con- 
clusive proof  of  the  vast  superiority  of  both  the 
human  and  taurine  species  in  Spain.  The  eminent 
torero,  Pepe  lUo,  said  :  "  The  love  of  bulls  is  inhe- 
rent in  man,  especially  in  the  Spaniard,  among 
which  glorious  people  there  have  been  bull-fights 
ever  since  bulls  were,  because,"  adds  Pepe,  with 
that  modesty  which  forms  so  charming  a  trait  of 
the  Iberian  character,  "the  Spanish  men  are  as 
much  more  brave  than  all  other  men,  as  the  Spanish 
bull  is  more  savage  and  valiant  than  aU  other  bulls." 
The  sport  permeates  the  national  life.  I  have  seen 
it  woven  into  the  tapestry  of  palaces,  and  rudely 
stamped  on  the  handkerchief  of  the  peasant.  It  is 
the  favorite  game  of  children  in  the  street.  Loyal 
Spain  was  thrilled  with  joy  recently  on  reading  in 
its  Paris  correspondence  that  when  the  exiled 
Prince  of  Asturias  went  for  a  half-holiday  to  visit 
his  Imperial  comrade  at  the  Tuileries,  the  urchins 
had  a  game  of  "  toro "  on  the  terrace,  admirably 
conducted  by  the  little  Bourbon  and  followed  up 
with  great  spirit  by  the  little  Montijo-Bonaparte. 

The  bull-fight  has  not  always  enjoyed  the  royal 
favor.  Isabel  the  Catholic  would  fain  have  abol- 
ished   bathing    and    bull- fighting    together.     The 


76  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Spaniards,  who  willingly  gave  up  their  ablutions, 
stood  stoutly  by  their  bulls,  and  the  energetic 
queen  was  baffled.  Again  when  the  Bourbons 
came  in  with  Philip  V.,  the  courtiers  turned  up 
their  thin  noses  at  the  coarse  diversion,  and  in- 
duced the  king  to  abolish  it.  It  would  not  stay 
abolished,  however,  and  Philip's  successor  built  the 
present  coliseum  in  expiation.  The  spectacle  has, 
nevertheless,  lost  much  of  its  early  splendor  by  the 
hammering  of  time.  Formerly  the  gayest  and 
bravest  gentlemen  of  the  court,  mounted  on  the 
best  horses  in  the  kingdom,  went  into  the  arena 
and  defied  the  bull  in  the  names  of  their  lady- 
loves. Now  the  buU  is  baited  and  slain  by  hired 
artists,  and  the  horses  they  mount  are  the  sorriest 
hacks  that  ever  went  to  the  knacker. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  shows  of  the  kind  that 
was  ever  put  upon  the  scene  was  the  Festival  of 
Bulls  given  by  Philip  IV.  in  honor  of  Charles  I., 

**  When  the  Stuart  came  from  far, 
Led  by  his  love's  sweet  paiu. 
To  Mary,  the  guiding  star 
That  shone  in  the  heaven  of  Spain." 

And  the  memory  of  that  dazzling  occasion  was  re- 
newed by  Ferdinand  VII.  in  the  year  of  his  death, 
when  he  called  upon  his  subjects  to  swear  allegiance 
to  his  baby  Isabel.  This  festival  took  place  in  the 
Plaza  Mayor.  The  king  and  court  occupied  the 
same  balconies  which  Charles  and  his  royal  friend 


TAUROMACHY.  77 

and  model  had  filled  two  centuries  before.  The 
champions  were  poor  nobles,  of  good  blood  but 
scanty  substance,  who  fought  for  glory  and  pen- 
sions, and  had  quadrilles  of  well-trained  bull-fight- 
ers at  their  stirrups  to  prevent  the  farce  from  be- 
coming tragedy.  The  royal  life  of  Isabel  of  Bour- 
bon was  inaugurated  by  the  spilled  blood  of  one 
hundred  bulls  save  one.  The  gory  prophecy  of 
that  day  has  been  well  sustained.  Not  one  year 
has  passed  since  then  free  from  blood  shed  in  her 
cause. 

But  these  extraordinary  attractions  are  not  neces- 
sary to  make  a  festival  of  bulls  the  most  seductive 
of  all  pleasures  to  a  Spaniard.  On  any  pleasant 
Sunday  afternoon,  from  Easter  to  All  Souls,  you 
have  only  to  go  into  the  street  to  see  that  there  is 
some  great  excitement  fusing  the  populace  into  one 
living  mass  of  sympathy.  All  faces  are  turned  one 
way,  all  minds  are  filled  with  one  purpose.  From 
the  Puerta  del  Sol  down  the  wide  Alcala  a  vast 
crowd  winds,  solid  as  a  glacier  and  bright  as  a  kalei- 
doscope. From  the  grandee  in  his  blazoned  car- 
riage to  the  manola  in  her  calico  gown,  there  is  no 
class  unrepresented.  Many  a  red  hand  grasps  the 
magic  ticket  which  is  to  open  the  realm  of  enchant- 
ment to-day,  and  which  represents  short  commons 
for  a  week  before.  The  pawnbrokers'  shops  have 
been  very  animated  for  the  few  preceding  days. 
There  is  nothing  too  precious  to  be  parted  with  for 


78  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  sake  of  the  bulls.  Many  of  these  smart  girls 
have  made  the  ultimate  sacrifice  for  that  coveted 
scrap  of  paper.  They  would  leave  their  mother's 
cross  with  the  children  of  Israel  rather  than  not  go. 
It  is  no  cheap  entertainment.  The  worst  places  in 
the  broiling  sun  cost  twenty  cents,  four  reals ;  and 
the  boxes  are  sold  usually  at  fifteen  doUars.  These 
prices  are  necessary  to  cover  the  heavy  expenses  of 
bulls,  horses,  and  gladiators. 

The  way  to  the  bull-ring  is  one  of  indescribable 
animation.  The  cabmen  drive  furiously  this  day 
their  broken-kneed  nags,  who  will  soon  be  found 
on  the  horns  of  the  bulls,  —  for  this  is  the  natural 
death  of  the  Madrid  cab-horse  ;  the  omnibus  teams 
dash  gayly  along  with  their  shrill  chime  of  bells ; 
there  are  the  rude  jests  of  clowns  and  the  high 
voices  of  excited  girls ;  the  water-venders  droning 
their  tempting  cry,  "  Cool  as  the  snow ! "  the  sellers 
of  fans  and  the  merchants  of  gingerbread  picking 
up  their  harvests  in  the  hot  and  hungry  crowd. 

The  Plaza  de  Toros  stands  just  outside  the  monu- 
mental gate  of  the  Alcala,  It  is  a  low,  squat,  prison- 
hke  circus  of  stone,  stuccoed  and  whitewashed,  with 
no  pretence  of  ornament  or  architectural  effect. 
There  is  no  nonsense  whatever  about  it.  It  is 
built  for  the  killing  of  bulls  and  for  no  other  pur- 
pose. Around  it,  on  a  day  of  battle,  you  will  find 
encamped  great  armies  of  the  lower  class  of  Ma- 
drilenos,  who  being  at  financial  ebb-tide,  cannot 


TAUROMACHY.  79 

pay  to  go  in.  But  they  come  all  the  same,  to  be 
in  the  enchanted  neighborhood,  to  hear  the  shouts 
and  roars  of  the  favored  ones  within,  and  to  seize 
any  possible  occasion  for  getting  in.  Who  knows  ? 
A  caballero  may  come  out  and  give  them  his  check. 
An  English  lady  may  become  disgusted  and  go 
home,  taking  away  numerous  lords  whose  places 
will  be  vacant.  The  sky  may  fall,  and  they  may 
catch  four  reals'  worth  of  larks.  It  is  worth  taking 
the  chances. 

One  does  not  soon  forget  the  first  sight  of  the 
full  coliseum.  In  the  centre  is  the  sanded  arena, 
surrounded  by  a  high  barrier.  Around  this  rises 
the  graded  succession  of  stone  benches  for  the  peo- 
ple ;  then  numbered  seats  for  the  connoisseurs ;  and 
above  a  row  of  boxes  extending  around  the  circle. 
The  building  holds,  when  full,  some  fourteen  thou- 
sand persons  ;  and  there  is  rarely  any  vacant  space. 
For  myself  I  can  say  that  what  I  vainly  strove  to 
imagine  in  the  coliseum  at  Rome,  and  in  the  more 
solemn  solitude  of  the  amphitheatres  of  Capua  and 
Pompeii,  came  up  before  me  with  the  vividness  of 
life  on  entering  the  bull-ring  of  Madrid.  This,  and 
none  other,  was  the  classic  arena.  This  was  the 
crowd  that  sat  expectant,  under  the  blue  sky,  in  the 
hot  glare  of  the  South,  while  the  doomed  captives 
of  Dacia  or  the  sectaries  of  Judea  commended  their 
souls  to  the  gods  of  the  Danube,  or  the  Crucified  of 
Galilee.      Half  the  sand  lay  in  the  bliading  sun. 


80  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Half  the  seats  were  illuminated  by  the  fierce  light. 
The  other  half  was  in  shadow,  and  the  dark  crescent 
crept  slowly  all  the  afternoon  across  the  arena  as 
the  sun  declined  in  the  west. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  a  more  brilliant  scene.  The 
women  put  on  their  gayest  finery. for  this  occasion. 
In  the  warm  light,  every  bit  of  color  flashes  out, 
every  combination  falls  naturally  into  its  place.  I 
am  afraid  the  luxuriance  of  hues  in  the  dress  of  the 
fair  Iberians  would  be  considered  shocking  in  Broad- 
way, but  in  the  vast  frame  and  broad  light  of  the 
Plaza  the  effect  was  very  brilliant.  Thousands  of 
party-colored  paper  fans  are  sold  at  the  ring.  The 
favorite  colors  are  the  national  red  and  yellow,  and 
the  fluttering  of  these  broad,  bright  disks  of  color 
is  dazzlingly  attractive.  There  is  a  gayety  of  con- 
versation, a  quick  fire  of  repartee,  shouts  of  recog- 
nition and  salutation,  which  altogether  make  up  a 
bewildering  confusion. 

The  weary  young  water-men  scream  their  snow- 
cold  refreshment.  The  orange-men  walk  with  their 
gold-freighted  baskets  along  the  barrier,  and  throw 
their  oranges  with  the  most  marvellous  skill  and 
certainty  to  people  in  distant  boxes  or  benches. 
They  never  miss  their  mark.  They  will  throw  over 
the  heads  of  a  thousand  people  a  dozen  oranges 
into  the  outstretched  hands  of  customers,  so  swiftly 
that  it  seems  like  one  line  of  gold  from  the  dealer 
to  the  buyer. 


TAUROMACHY.  81 

At  length  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  announces  the 
clearing  of  the  ring.  The  idlers  who  have  been 
lounging  in  the  arena  are  swept  out  by  the  alguaciles, 
and  the  hum  of  conversation  gives  way  to  an  ex- 
pectant silence.  When  the  last  loafer  has  reluctant- 
ly retired,  the  great  gate  is  thrown  open,  and  the 
procession  of  the  toreros  enters.  They  advance  in 
a  glittering  line :  first  the  marshals  of  the  day, 
then  the  picadors  on  horseback,  then  the  matadors 
on  foot  surrounded  each  by  his  quadrille  of  chulos. 
They  walk  towards  the  box  which  holds  the  city 
fathers,  under  whose  patronage  the  show  is  given, 
and  formally  salute  the  authority.  This  is  all  very 
classic,  also,  recalling  the  Ave  Ccesar,  morituri,  etc. 
of  the  gladiators.  It  lacks,  however,  the  solemnity 
of  the  Koman  salute,  from  those  splendid  fellows 
who  would  never  all  leave  the  arena  alive.  A  bull- 
fighter is  sometimes  killed,  it  is  true,  but  the  per- 
centage of  deadly  danger  is  scarcely  enough  to  make 
a  spectator's  heart  beat  as  the  bedizened  procession 
comes  flashing  by  in  the  sun. 

The  municipal  authority  throws  the  bowing  al- 
guacil  a  key,  which  he  catches  in  his  hat,  or  is 
hissed  if  he  misses  it.  With  this  he  unlocks  the 
door  through  which  the  bull  is  to  enter,  and  then 
scampers  off  with  undignified  haste  through  the 
opposite  entrance.  There  is  a  bugle  flourish,  the 
door  flies  open,  and  the  bull  rushes  out,  blind  with 
the  staring  light,  furious  with  rage,  trembling  in 

4*  P 


82  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

every  limb.  This  is  the  most  intense  moment  of 
the  day.  The  glorious  brute  is  the  target  of  twelve 
thousand  pairs  of  eyes.  There  is  a  silence  as  of 
death,  while  every  one  waits  to  see  his  first  move- 
ment. He  is  doomed  from  the  beginning ;  the  cur- 
tain has  risen  on  a  three-act  tragedy,  which  will 
surely  end  with  his  death,  but  the  incidents  which 
are  to  fill  the  interval  are  all  unknown.  The  minds 
and  eyes  of  all  that  vast  assembly  know  nothing 
for  the  time  but  the  movements  of  that  brute.  He 
stands  for  an  instant  recovering  his  senses.  He  has 
been  shot  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  into  that 
dazzling  light.  He  sees  around  him  a  sight  such 
as  he  never  confronted  before,  —  a  wall  of  living 
faces  lit  up  by  thousands  of  staring  eyes.  He  does 
not  dwell  long  upon  this,  however ;  in  his  pride 
and  anger  he  sees  a  nearer  enemy.  The  horsemen 
have  taken  position  near  the  gate,  where  they  sit 
motionless  as  burlesque  statues,  their  long  ashen 
spears,  iron-tipped,  in  rest,  their  wretched  nags 
standing  blindfolded,  with  trembling  knees,  and 
necks  like  dromedaries,  not  dreaming  of  their  near 
fate.  The  bull  rushes,  with  a  snort,  at  the  nearest 
one.  The  picador  holds  firmly,  planting  his  spear- 
pornt  in  the  shoulder  of  the  brute.  Sometimes  the 
bull  flinches  at  this  sharp  and  sudden  punishment, 
and  the  picador,  by  a  sudden  turn  to  the  left,  gets 
away  unhurt.  Then  there  is  applause  for  the  torero 
and  hisses  for  the  bull.     Some  indignant  amateurs 


TAUROMACHY.  83 

go  SO  far  as  to  call  him  cow,  and  to  inform  him  that 
he  is  the  son  of  his  mother.  But  oftener  he  rushes 
in,  not  caring  for  the  spear,  and  with  one  toss  of  his 
sharp  horns  tumbles  horse  and  rider  in  one  heap 
against  the  barrier  and  upon  the  sand.  The  cajpea- 
dores,  the  cloak-bearers,  come  fluttering  around  and 
divert  the  bull  from  his  prostrate  victims.  The 
picador  is  lifted  to  his  feet,  —  his  iron  armor  not 
permitting  him  to  rise  without  help,  —  and  the 
horse  is  rapidly  scanned  to  see  if  his  wounds  are 
immediately  mortal.  If  not,  the  picador  mounts 
again,  and  provokes  the  bull  to  another  rush.  A 
horse  will  usually  endure  two  or  three  attacks  be- 
fore dying.  Sometimes  a  single  blow  from  in  front 
pierces  the  heart,  and  the  blood  spouts  forth  in  a 
cataract.  In  this  case  the  picador  hastily  dis- 
mounts, and  the  bridle  and  saddle  are  stripped  in 
an  instant  from  the  dying  brute.  If  a  bull  is 
energetic  and  rapid  in  execution,  he  will  clear  the 
arena  in  a  few  moments.  He  rushes  at  one  horse 
after  another,  tears  them  open  with  his  terrible 
"spears"  ("horns"  is  a  word  never  used  in  the 
ring),  and  sends  them  madly  galloping  over  the 
arena,  trampling  out  their  gushing  bowels  as  they 
fly.  The  assistants  watch  their  opportunity,  from 
time  to  time,  to  take  the  wounded  horses  out  of  the 
ring,  plug  up  their  gaping  rents  with  tow,  and  sew 
them  roughly  up  for  another  sally.  It  is  incredible 
to  see  what  these  poor  creatures  will  endure, — • 


84  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

carrying  their  riders  at  a  lumbering  gallop  over  the 
ring,  when  their  thin  sides  seem  empty  of  entrails. 
Sometimes  the  bull  comes  upon  the  dead  body  of  a 
horse  he  has  killed.  The  smell  of  blood  and  the 
unmoving  helplessness  of  the  victim  excite  him  to 
the  highest  pitch.  He  gores  and  tramples  the  car- 
cass, and  tosses  it  in  the  air  with  evident  enjoy- 
ment, imtil  diverted  by  some  living  tormentor. 

You  will  occasionally  see  a  picador  nervous  and 
anxious  about  his  personal  safety.  They  are  igno- 
rant and  superstitious,  and  subject  to  presenti- 
ments ;  they  often  go  into  the  ring  with  the  impres- 
sion that  their  last  hour  has  come.  If  one  takes 
counsel  of  his  fears  and  avoids  the  shock  of  combat, 
the  hard-hearted  crowd  immediately  discover  it  and 
rain  maledictions  on  his  head.  I  saw  a  picador 
once  enter  the  ring  as  pale  as  death.  He  kept  care-' 
fully  out  of  the  way  of  the  bull  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  sharp-eyed  Spaniards  noticed  it,  and  com- 
menced shouting,  "  Craven  I  He  wants  to  live  for- 
ever!" They  threw  orange-skins  at  him,  and  at 
last,  their  rage  vanquishing  their  economy,  they 
pelted  him  with  oranges.  His  pallor  gave  way  to  a 
flush  of  shame  and  anger.  He  attacked  the  bull  so 
awkwardly,  that  the  animal,  killing  his  horse,  threw 
him  also  with  great  violence.  His  hat  flew  off,  his 
bald  head  struck  the  hard  soil.  He  lay  there  as 
one  dead,  and  was  borne  away  lifeless.  This  molli- 
fied the  indignant  people,  and  they  desisted  from 
their  abuse. 


TAUROMACHY.  85 

A  cowardly  bull  is  much  more  dangerous  than  a 
courageous  one,  who  lowers  his  head,  shuts  his  eyes, 
and  goes  blindly  at  everything  he  sees.  The  last 
refuge  of  a  bull  in  trouble  is  to  leap  the  barrier, 
where  he  produces  a  lively  moment  among  the 
water-carriers  and  orange-boys  and  stage-carpen- 
ters. I  once  saw  a  bull,  who  had  done  very  little 
execution  in  the  arena,  leap  the  barrier  suddenly  and 
toss  an  unfortunate  carpenter  from  the  gangway 
sheer  into  the  ring.  He  picked  himself  up,  laughed, 
saluted  his  friends,  ran  a  little  distance  and  fell, 
and  was  carried  out  dying.  Fatal  accidents  are 
rarely  mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  and  it  is  con- 
sidered not  quite  good  form  to  talk  about  them. 

When  the  bull  has  killed  enough  horses,  the  first 
act  of  the  play  terminates.  But  this  is  an  exceed- 
ingly delicate  matter  for  the  authorities  to  decide. 
The  audience  will  not  endure  any  economy  in  this 
respect.  If  the  bull  is  enterprising  and  "  volun- 
tary," he  must  have  as  many  horses  as  he  can  dis- 
pose of.  One  day  in  Madrid  the  bulls  operated 
with  such  activity  that  the  supply  of  horses  was 
exhausted  before  the  close  of  the  show,  and  the 
contractors  rushed  out  in  a  panic  and  bought  a  half- 
dozen  screws  from  the  nearest  cab-stand.  If  the 
president  orders  out  the  horses  before  their  time,  he 
will  hear  remarks  by  no  means  complimentary  from 
the  austere  groundlings. 

The  second  act  is  the  play  of  the  handerilleros, 


86  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  flag-men.  They  are  beautifully  dressed  and  su- 
perbly built  fellows,  principally  from  Andalusia, 
got  up  precisely  like  Figaro  in  the  opera.  Theirs 
is  the  most  delicate  and  graceful  operation  of  the 
bull-fight.  They  take  a  pair  of  barbed  darts,  with 
little  banners  fluttering  at  their  ends,  and  provoke 
the  bull  to  rush  at  them.  At  the  instant  he  reaches 
them,  when  it  seems  nothing  can  save  them,  they 
step  aside  and  plant  the  banderillas  in  the  neck  of 
the  bull  If  the  bull  has  been  cowardly  and  slug- 
gish, and  the  spectators  have  called  for  "  fire,"  darts 
are  used  filled  with  detonating  powder  at  the  base, 
which  explode  in  the  flesh  of  the  bull.  He  dances 
and  skips  like  a  kid  or  a  colt  in  his  agony,  which  is 
very  diverting  to  the  Spanish  mind.  A  prettier 
conceit  is  that  of  confining  small  birds  in  paper 
cages,  which  come  apart  when  the  banderilla  is 
planted,  and  set  the  little  fluttering  captives  free. 

Decking  the  bull  with  these  torturing  ornaments 
is  the  last  stage  in  the  apprenticeship  of  the  chulo, 
before  he  rises  to  the  dignity  of  matador,  or  killer. 
The  matadors  themselves  on  special  occasions  think 
it  no  derogation  from  their  dignity  to  act  as  bande- 
rilleros.  But  they  usually  accompany  the  act  with 
some  exaggeration  of  difficulty  that  reaps  for  them 
a  harvest  of  applause.  Frascuelo  sits  in  a  chair 
and  plants  the  irritating  bannerets.  Lagartijo  lays 
his  handkerchief  on  the  ground  and  stands  upon 
it  while  he  coifs  the  bull     A  performance  which 


TAUROMACHY.  87 

never  fails  to  bring  down  the  house  is  for  the  torero 
to  await  the  rush  of  the  bull,  and  when  the  bellow- 
ing monster  comes  at  him  with  winking  eyes  and 
lowered  head,  to  put  his  slippered  foot  between  the 
horns,  and  vault  lightly  over  his  back. 

These  chulos  exhibit  the  most  wonderful  skill 
and  address  in  evading  the  assault  of  the  bull. 
They  can  almost  always  trick  him  by  waving  their 
cloaks  a  little  out  of  the  line  of  their  flight.  Some- 
times, however,  the  bull  runs  straight  at  the  man, 
disregarding  the  flag,  and  if  the  distance  is  great  to 
the  barrier  the  danger  is  imminent;  for  swift  as 
these  men  are,  the  bulls  are  swifter.  Once  I  saw 
the  bull  strike  the  torero  at  the  instant  he  vaulted 
over  the  barrier.  He  fell  sprawling  some  distance 
the  other  side,  safe,  but  terribly  bruised  and  stunned. 
As  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself  he  sprang  into 
the  arena  again,  looking  very  seedy ;  and  the  crowd 
roared,  "  Saved  by  miracle."  I  could  but  think  of 
Basilio,  who,  when  the  many  cried,  "  A  miracle," 
answered, "  Industria  !  Industria ! "  But  these  bull- 
fighters are  all  very  pious,  and  glad  to  curry  favor 
with  the  saints  by  attributing  every  success  to  their 
intervention.  The  famous  matador,  Paco  Montes, 
fervently  believed  in  an  amulet  he  carried,  and  in 
the  invocation  of  Our  Lord  of  the  True  Cross.  He 
called  upon  this  special  name  in  every  tight  place, 
and  while  other  people  talked  of  his  luck  he  stoutly 
afi&rmed  it  was  his  faith  that  saved  him ;  often  he 


88  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

said  he  saw  the  veritable  picture  of  the  Passion 
coming  down  between  him  and  the  bull,  in  answer 
to  his  prayers.  At  every  bull-ring  there  is  a  little 
chapel  in  the  refreshment-room  where  these  devout 
ruffians  can  toss  off  a  prayer  or  two  in  the  intervals 
of  work.  A  priest  is  always  at  hand  with  a  conse- 
crated wafer,  to  visa  the  torero's  passport  who  has 
to  start  suddenly  for  Paradise.  It  is  not  exactly 
regular,  but  the  ring  has  built  many  churches  and 
endowed  many  chapels,  and  must  not  be  too  rigidly 
regarded.  In  many  places  the  chief  boxes  are  re- 
served for  the  clergy,  and  prayers  are  hurried 
through  an  hour  earlier  on  the  day  of  combat. 

The  final  act  is  the  death  of  the  bull.  It  must 
come  at  last.  His  exploits  in  the  early  part  of  his 
career  afford  to  the  amateur  some  indication  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  wiU  meet  his  end.  If  he  is  a 
generous,  courageous  brute,  with  more  heart  than 
brains,  he  wiU.  die  gallantly  and  be  easily  killed. 
But  if  he  has  shown  reflection,  forethought,  and 
that  saving  quality  of  the  oppressed,  suspicion,  the 
matador  has  a  serious  work  before  him.  The  bull  is 
always  regarded  from  this  objective  standpoint. 
The  more  power  of  reason  the  brute  has,  the  worse 
opinion  the  Spaniard  has  of  him.  A  stupid  crea- 
ture who  rushes  blindly  on  the  sword  of  the  mata- 
dor is  an  animal  after  his  own  heart.  But  if  there 
be  one  into  whose  brute  brain  some  glimmer  of  the 
awful  truth  has  come,  —  and  this  sometimes  hap- 


TAUROMACHY.  89 

pens, — if  he  feels  the  solemn  question  at  issue 
between  him  and  his  enemy,  if  he  eyes  the  man 
and  not  the  flag,  if  he  refuses  to  be  fooled  by  the 
waving  lure,  but  keeps  all  his  strength  and  all  his 
faculties  for  his  own  defence,  the  soul  of  the  Span- 
iard rises  up  in  hate  and  loathing.  He  calls  on  the 
matador  to  kill  him  any  way.  If  he  will  not  rush 
at  the  flag,  the  crowd  shouts  for  the  demi-lune  ;  and 
the  noble  brute  is  houghed  from  behind,  and  your 
soul  grows  sick  with  shame  of  human  nature,  at  the 
hellish  glee  with  which  they  watch  him  hobbling 
on  his  severed  legs. 

This  seldom  happens.  The  final  act  is  usually  an 
admirable  study  of  coolness  and  skill  against  brute 
force.  When  the  banderillas  are  all  planted,  and 
the  bugles  sound  for  the  third  time,  the  matador, 
the  esjpada,  the  sword,  steps  forward  with  a  modest 
consciousness  of  distinguished  merit,  and  makes  a 
brief  speech  to  the  corregidoVy  offering  in  honor  of 
the  good  city  of  Madrid  to  kill  the  bull.  He  turns 
on  his  -heel,  throws  his  hat  by  a  dexterous  back- 
handed movement  over  the  barrier,  and  advances, 
sword  and  cape  in  hand,  to  where  his  noble  enemy 
awaits  him.  The  bull  appears  to  recognize  a  more 
serious  foe  than  any  he  has  encountered.  •  He  stops 
short  and  eyes  the  new-comer  curiously.  It  is  al- 
ways an  impressive  picture  :  the  tortured,  mad- 
dened animal,  whose  thin  flanks  are  palpitating 
with  his  hot  breath,  his  coat  one  shining  mass  of 


90  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

blood  from  the  darts  and  the  spear-thmsts,  his  mas- 
sive neck  still  decked  as  in  mockery  with  the  flut- 
tering flags,  his  fine  head  and  muzzle  seeming  sharp- 
ened by  the  hour's  terrible  experience,  his  formidable 
horns  crimsoned  with  onset ;  in  front  of  this  fiery 
bulk  of  force  and  courage,  the  slight,  sinewy  frame  of 
the  killer,  whose  only  reliance  is  on  his  coolness  and 
his  intellect.  I  never  saw  a  matador  come  care- 
lessly to  his  work.  He  is  usually  pale  and  alert. 
He  studies  the  bull  for  a  moment  with  all  his  eyes. 
He  waves  the  blood-red  engano,  or  lure,  before  his 
face.  If  the  bull  rushes  at  it  with  his  eyes  shut 
the  work  is  easy.  He  has  only  to  select  his  own 
stroke  and  make  it.  But  if  the  bull  is  jealous  and 
sly,  it  requires  the  most  careful  management  to  kill 
him.  The  disposition  of  the  bull  is  developed  by  a 
few  rapid  passes  of  the  red  flag.  This  must  not  be 
continued  too  long :  the  tension  of  the  nerves  of  the 
auditory  will  not  bear  trifling.  I  remember  one  day 
the  crowd  was  aroused  to  fury  by  a  bugler  from 
the  adjoining  barracks  playing  retreat  at  the  mo- 
ment of  decision.  All  at  once  the  matador  seizes 
the  favorable  instant.  He  poises  his  sword  as  the 
bull  rushes  upon  him.  The  point  enters  just  be- 
tween the  left  shoulder  and  the  spine ;  the  long  blade 
glides  in  up  to  the  hilt.  The  bull  reels  and  staggers 
and  dies. 

Sometimes   the   matador   severs    the    vertebrae. 
The  effect  is  like  magic.     He  lays  the  point  of  his 


TAUROMACHY.  91 

sword  between  the  bull's  horns,  as  lightly  as  a  lady 
who  touches  her  cavalier  with  her  fan,  and  he  falls 
dead  as  a  stone. 

If  the  blow  is  a  clean,  well-delivered  one,  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  people  is  unbounded.  Their  ap- 
proval comes  up  in  a  thunderous  shout  of,  "  Well 
done  !  .  Valiente  t  Viva  !  "  A  brown  shower  of 
cigars  rains  on  the  sand.  The  victor  gathers  them 
up :  they  fill  his  hands,  his  pockets,  his  hat.  He 
gives  them  to  his  friends,  and  the  aromatic  shower 
continues.  Hundreds  of  hats  are  flung  into  the 
ring.  He  picks  them  up  and  shies  them  back  to 
their  shouting  owners.  Sometimes  a  dollar  is  mingled 
with  the  flying  compliments ;  but  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  Spaniard  rarely  carries  him  so  far  as  that. 
For  ten  minutes  after  a  good  estocaday  the  matador 
is  the  most  popular  man  in  Spain. 

But  the  trumpets  sound  again,  the  door  of  the 
Toril  flies  open,  another  bull  comes  rushing  out,  and 
the  present  interest  quenches  the  past.  The  play 
begins  again,  with  its  sameness  of  purpose  and  its 
infinite  variety  of  incident. 

It  is  not  quite  accurate  to  say,  as  is  often  said, 
that  the  bull-fighter  runs  no  risk.  El  Tato,  the  first 
sword  of  Spain,  lost  his  leg  in  1869,  and  his  life 
was  saved  by  the  coolness  and  courage  of  Lagartijo, 
who  succeeded  him  in  the  championship,  and  who 
was  terribly  wounded  in  the  foot  the  next  summer. 
Arjona  killed  a  buU  in  the  same  year,  which  tossed 


92  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  ruptured  him  after  receiving  his  death-blow. 
Pepe  Illo  died  in  harness,  on  the  sand.  Every  year 
picadors,  chulos,  and  such  small  deer  are  killed, 
without  gossip.  I  must  copy  the  inscription  on  the 
sword  which  Tato  presented  to  Lagartijo,  as  a  speci- 
men of  tauromachian  literature  :  — 

"  If,  as  philosophers  say,  gratitude  is  the  tribute 
of  noble  souls,  accept,  dear  Lagartijo,  this  present  • 
preserve  it  as  a  sacred  relic,  for  it  symbolizes  the 
memory  of  my  glories,  and  is  at  the  same  time  the 
mute  witness  of  my  misfortune.  With  it  I  killed 
my  last  bull  named  Peregrino,  bred  by  D.  Vicente 
Martinez,  fourth  of  the  fight  of  the  7th  June,  1869, 
in  which  act  I  received  the  wound  which  has  caused 
the  amputation  of  my  right  leg.  The  will  of  man 
can  do  nothing  against  the  designs  of  Providence. 
Nothing  but  resignation  is  left  to  thy  affectionate 
friend,  Antonio  Sanchez  [Tato]." 

It  is  in  consideration  of  the  mingled  skill  and 
danger  of  the  trade,  that  such  enormous  fees  are 
paid  the  principal  performers.  The  leading  swords- 
men receive  about  three  hundred  dollars  for  each 
performance,  and  they  are  eagerly  disputed  by  the 
direction  of  all  the  arenas  of  Spain.  In  spite  of 
these  large  wages,  they  are  rarely  rich.  They  are 
as  wasteful  and  improvident  as  gamblers.  Tato, 
when  he  lost  his  leg,  lost  his  means  of  subsistence, 
and  his  comrades  organized  one  or  two  benefits  to 
keep  him  from  want.  Cuchares  died  in  the  Havana^ 
and  left  no  provision  for  his  family. 


TAUROMACHY.  93 

There  is  a  curious  naivete  in  the  play-bill  of  a 
bull-fight,  the  only  conscientious  public  document 
I  have  seen  in  Spain.  You  know  how  we  of  North- 
em  blood  exaggerate  the  attractions  of  all  sorts  of 
shows^  trusting  to  the  magnanimity  of  the  audience. 
"  He  war  n't  nothing  like  so  little  as  that/'  con- 
fesses Mr.  Magsman,  "but  where  's  your  dwarf 
what  is  ? "  There  are  few  who  have  the  moral 
courage  to  demand  their  money  back  because  they 
counted  but  thirty-nine  thieves  when  the  bills 
promised  forty.  But  the  management  of  the  Ma- 
drid bull-ring  knows  its  public  too  well  to  promise 
more  than  it  is  sure  of  performing.  It  announces 
six  bulls,  and  positively  no  more.  It  says  there 
will  be  no  use  of  bloodhounds.  It  promises  two 
picadors,  with  three  others  in  reserve,  and  warns 
the  public  that  if  all  five  become  inutilized  in  the 
combat,  no  more  wiU  be  issued.  With  so  fair  a 
preliminary  statement,  what  crowd,  however  in- 
flammable, could  mob  the  management  ?• 

Some  industrious  and  ascetic  statistician  has 
visited  Spain  and  interested  himseK  in  the  bull- 
ring. Here  are  some  of  the  results  of  his  re- 
searches. In  1864  the  number  of  places  in  aU  the 
taurine  establishments  of  Spain  was  509,283,  of 
which  246,813  belonged  to  the  cities,  and  262,470 
to  the  country. 

In  the  year  1864,  there  were  427  buU-fights,  of 
which  294  took  place  in  the  cities,  and  133  in  the 


94  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

country  towns.  The  receipts  of  ninety-eight  bull- 
rings in  1864  reached  the  enormous  sum  of  two  hun- 
dred and  seventeen  and  a  half  millions  of  reals  (near- 
ly $  11,000,000).  The  427  bull-fights  which  took 
place  in  Spain  during  the  year  1864  caused  the 
death  of  2,989  of  these  fine  animals,  and  about 
7,473  horses,  —  something  more  than  half  the  num- 
ber of  the  cavalry  of  Spain.  These  wasted  victims 
could  have  ploughed  three  hundred  thousand  hec- 
tares of  land,  which  would  have  produced  a  million 
and  a  half  hectolitres  of  grain,  worth  eighty  millions 
of  reals ;  all  this  without  counting  the  cost  of  the 
slaughtered  cattle,  woi-th  say  seven  or  eight  millions, 
at  a  moderate  calculation. 

Thus  far  the  Arithmetic  Man ;  to  whom  responds 
the  tauromachian  aficionado  :  That  the  bulk  of  this 
income  goes  to  purposes  of  charity ;  that  were  there 
no  buU-fights,  bulls  of  good  race  would  cease  to 
be  bred ;  that  nobody  ever  saw  a  horse  in  a  bull- 
ring that  could  plough  a  furrow  of  a  hundred  yards 
without  giving  up  the  ghost ;  that  the  nerve,  dex- 
terity, and  knowledge  of  brute  nature  gained  in  the 
arena  is  a  good  thing  to  have  in  the  country  ;  that, 
in  short,  it  is  our  way  of  amusing  ourselves,  and  if 
you  don't  like  it  you  can  go  home  and  cultivate 
prize-fighters,  or  kill  two-year-old  colts  on  the  race- 
course, or  murder  jockeys  in  hurdle-races,  or  break 
your  own  necks  in  steeple-chases,  or  in  search  of 
wilder  excitement  thicken  your  blood  with  beer 
or  bum  your  souls  out  with  whiskey. 


TAUROMACHY.  95 

And  this  is  all  we  get  by  our  well-meant  eifort 
to  convince  Spaniards  of  the  brutality  of  bull- 
fights. Must  Chicago  be  virtuous  before  I  can  ob- 
ject to  Madrid  ale,  and  say  that  its  cakes  are  unduly 
gingered  ? 

Yet  even  those  who  most  stoutly  defend  the 
bull-fight  feel  that  its  glory  has  departed  and  that 
it  has  entered  into  the  era  of  full  decadence.  I 
was  talking  one  evening  with  a  Castilian  gentle- 
man, one  of  those  who  cling  with  most  persistence 
to  the  national  traditions,  and  he  confessed  that  the 
noble  art  was  wounded  to  death.  "  I  do  not  refer, 
as  many  do,  to  the  change  from  the  old  times,  when 
gentlemen  fought  on  their  own  horses  in  the  ring. 
That  was  nonsense,  and  could  not  survive  the  time 
of  Cervantes.  Life  is  too  short  to  learn  bull-fight- 
ing. A  grandee  of  Spain,  if  he  knows  anything 
else,  would  make  a  sorry  torero.  The  good  times 
of  the  art  are  more  modem.  I  saw  the  short  day 
of  the  glory  of  the  ring  when  I  was  a  boy.  There 
was  a  race  of  gladiators  then,  such  as  the  world 
will  never  see  again,  —  mighty  fighters  before  the 
king.  Pepe  Illo  and  Costillares,  Romero  and  Paco 
Montes,  —  the  world  does  not  contain  the  stuff  to 
make  their  counterparts.  They  were  serious,  ear- 
nest men.  They  would  have  let  their  right  arms 
wither  before  they  would  have  courted  the  applause 
of  the  mob  by  killing  a  bull  outside  of  the  severe 
traditions.     Compare  them  with  the  men  of  to-day, 


96  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

with  your  Rafael  Molina,  who  allows  himself  to  be 
gored,  playing  with  a  heifer ;  with  your  frivolous 
boys  like  Frascuelo.  I  have  seen  the  ring  con- 
vulsed with  laughter  as  that  buffoon  strutted  across 
the  arena,  flirting  his  muleta  as  a  manola  does  her 
skirts,  the  bewildered  bull  not  knowing  what  to 
make  of  it.  It  was  enough  to  make  lUo  turn  in  his 
bloody  grave. 

"  Why,  my  young  friend,  I  remember  when  bulls 
were  a  dignified  and  serious  matter ;  when  we  kept 
account  of  their  progress  from  their  pasture  to  the 
capital  We  had  accounts  of  their  condition  by 
couriers  and  carrier-pigeons.  On  the  day  when 
they  appeared  it  was  a  high  festival  in  the  court. 
All  the  sombreros  in  Spain  were  there,  the  ladies  in 
national  dress  with  white  mantillas.  The  young 
queen  always  in  her  jpalco  (may  God  guard  her). 
The  fighters  of  that  day  were  high-priests  of  art ; 
there  was  something  of  veneration  in  the  regard 
that  was  paid  them.  Duchesses  threw  them  bou- 
quets with  billets-doux.  Gossip  and  newspapers 
have  destroyed  the  romance  of  common  life. 

"  The  only  pleasure  I  take  in  the  Plaza  de  Toros 
now  is  at  night.  The  custodians  know  me  and  let 
me  moon  about  in  the  dark.  When  all  that  is  ig- 
noble and  mean  has  faded  away  with  the  daylight, 
it  seems  to  me  the  ghosts  of  the  old  time  come  back 
upon  the  sands.  I  can  fancy  the  patter  of  light 
hoofs,  the  glancing  of  spectral  horns.    I  can  imagine 


TAUROMACHY.  97 

the  agfle  tread  of  Eomero,  the  deadly  thrust  of 
Montes,  the  whisper  of  long- vanished  applause,  and 
the  clapping  of  ghostly  hands.  I  am  growing  too 
old  for  such  skylarking,  and  I  sometimes  come  away 
with  a  cold  in  my  head.  But  you  will  never  see  a 
bull-fight  you  can  enjoy  as  I  do  these  visionary  fes- 
tivals, where  memory  is  the  corregidor,  and  where 
the  only  spectators  are  the  stars  and  I." 


98  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 


RED-LETTER  DAYS. 

No  people  embrace  more  readily  than  the 
Spaniards  the  opportunity  of  spending  a  day  with- 
out work.  Their  frequent  holidays  are  a  relic  of 
the  days  when  the  Church  stood  between  the  peo- 
ple and  their  taskmasters,  and  fastened  more  firmly 
its  hold  upon  the  hearts  of  the  ignorant  and  over- 
worked masses,  by  becoming  at  once  the  fountair. 
of  salvation  in  the  next  world,  and  of  rest  in  this. 
The  government  rather  encouraged  this  growth  of 
play-days,  as  the  Italian  Bourbons  used  to  foster 
mendicancy,  by  way  of  keeping  the  people  as  un- 
thrifty as  possible.  Lazzaroni  are  so  much  more 
easily  managed  than  burghers  ! 

It  is  only  the  holy  days  that  are  successfully 
celebrated  in  Spain.  The  state  has  tried  of  late 
years  to  consecrate  to  idle  parade  a  few  revolution- 
ary dates,  but  they  have  no  vigorous  national  life. 
They  grow  feebler  and  more  colorless  year  by  year, 
because  they  have  no  depth  of  earth. 

The  most  considerable  of  these  national  festivals 
is  the  2d  of  May,  which  commemorates  the  slaughter 
of  patriots  in  the  streets  of  Madrid  by  Murat.  This 
is  a  political  holiday  which  appeals  more  strongly 


RED-LETTER   DAYS.  99 

to  the  national  character  of  the  Spaniards  than  any 
other.  The  mingled  pride  of  race  and  ignorant  hate 
of  everjrthing  foreign  which  constitutes  that  singular 
passion  called  Spanish  patriotism,  or  Espafiolismo, 
is  fully  called  into  play  by  the  recollections  of  the 
terrible  scenes  of  their  war  of  independence,  which 
drove  out  a  foreign  king,  and  brought  back  into 
Spain  a  native  despot  infinitely  meaner  and  more 
injurious.  It  is  an  impressive  study  in  national 
character  and  thought,  this  self-satisfaction  of  even 
liberal  Spaniards  at  the  reflection  that,  by  a  vast 
and  supreme  effort  of  the  nation,  after  countless 
sacrifices  and  with  the  aid  of  coalesced  Europe,  they 
exchanged  Joseph  Bonaparte  for  Ferdinand  VII.  and 
the  Inquisition.  But  the  victims  of  the  Dos  de 
Mayo  fell  fighting.  Daoiz,  Velarde,  and  Kuiz  were 
bayoneted  at  their  guns,  scorning  surrender.  The 
alcalde  of  Mostoles,  a  petty  village  of  Castile, 
called  on  Spain  to  rise  against  the  tyrant.  And 
Spain  obeyed  the  summons  of  this  cross-roads  jus- 
tice. The  contempt  of  probabilities,  the  Quixotism 
of  these  successive  demonstrations,  endear  them  to 
the  Spanish  heart. 

Every  2d  of  May  the  city  of  Madrid  gives  up  the 
day  to  funeral  honors  to  the  dead  of  1808.  The  city 
government,  attended  by  its  Maceros,  in  their  gor- 
geous robes  of  gold  and  scarlet,  with  silver  maces 
and  long  white  plumes  ;  the  public  institutions  of 
all  grades,  with  invalids  and  veterans  and  charity 


100  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

children ;  a  large  detachment  of  the  army  and  navy, 
—  form  a  vast  procession  at  the  Town  Hall,  and, 
headed  hy  the  Supreme  Government,  march  to  slow 
music  through  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  the  spacious 
Alcala  street  to  the  granite  obelisk  in  the  Prado 
which  marks  the  resting-place  of  the  patriot  dead. 
I  saw  the  Kegent  of  the  kingdom,  surrounded  by 
his  cabinet,  sauntering  all  a  summer's  afternoon 
under  a  blazing  sun,  over  the  dusty  mile  that  sepa- 
rates the  monument  from  the  Ayuntamiento.  The 
Spaniards  are  hopelessly  inefficient  in  these  matters. 
The  people  always  fill  the  line  of  march,  and  a 
rivulet  of  procession  meanders  feebly  through  a 
wilderness  of  mob.  It  is  fortunate  that  the  crowd 
is  more  entertaining  than  the  show. 

The  Church  has  a  very  indifferent  part  in  this 
ceremonial.  It  does  nothing  more  than  celebrate  a 
Mass  in  the  shade  of  the  dark  cjrpresses  in  the 
Place  of  Loyalty,  and  then  leaves  the  field  clear  to 
the  secular  power.  But  this  is  the  only  purely 
civic  ceremony  I  ever  saw  in  Spain.  The  Church 
is  lord  of  the  holidays  for  the  rest  of  the  year. 

In  the  middle  of  May  comes  the  feast  of  the 
ploughboy  patron  of  Madrid,  —  San  Isidro.  He 
was  a  true  Madrileno  in  tastes,  and  spent  his  time 
lying  in  the  summer  shade  or  basking  in  the  winter 
sunshine,  seeing  visions,  while  angels  came  down 
from  heaven  and  did  his  farm  chores  for  him.  The 
angels  are  less  amiable  nowadays,  but  every  true 


RED-LETTER   DAYJ^.'  '  "  '      '^'  '  '»  ^^^  ' 

child  of  Madrid  reveres  the  example  and  envies 
the  success  of  the  San  Isidro  method  of  doing  busi- 
ness. In  the  process  of  years  this  lazy  lout  has  be- 
come a  great  Saint,  and  his  bones  have  done  more 
extensive  and  remarkable  miracle-work  than  any 
equal  amount  of  phosphate  in  existence.  In  des- 
perate cases  of  sufficient  rank  the  doctors  throw  up 
the  sponge  and  send  for  Isidro's  urn,  and  the  drug- 
ging having  ceased,  the  noble  patient  frequently  re- 
covers, and  much  honor  and  profit  comes  thereby 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Saint.  There  is  something  of 
the  toady  in  Isidro's  composition.  You  never  hear  of 
his  curing  any  one  of  less  than  princely  rank.  I  read 
in  an  old  chronicle  of  Madrid,  that  once  when  Queen 
Isabel  the  Catholic  was  hunting  in  the  hills  that 
overlook  the  Manzanares,  near  what  is  now  the 
oldest  and  quaintest  quarter  of  the  capital,  she 
killed  a  bear  of  great  size  and  ferocity ;  and  doubt- 
less thinking  it  might  not  be  considered  lady-like 
to  have  done  it  unassisted,  she  gave  San  Isidro  the 
credit  of  the  lucky  blow  and  built  him  a  nice  new 
chapel  for  it  near  the  Church  of  San  Andres.  If 
there  are  any  doubters,  let  them  go  and  see  the 
chapel,  as  I  did.  When  the  allied  armies  of  the 
Christian  Kings  of  Spain  were  seeking  for  a  passage 
through  the  hills  to  the  Plains  of  Tolosa,  a  shepherd 
appeared  and  led  them  straight  to  victory  and  end- 
less fame.  After  the  battle,  which  broke  the  Moorish 
power  forever  in  Central  Spain,  instead  of  looking 


1'62  CASI'ILIAN  DAYS. 

for  the  shepherd  and  paying  him  handsomely  for 
his  timely  scout-service,  they  found  it  more  pious 
and  economical  to  say  it  was  San  Isidro  in  person 
who  had  kindly  made  himself  flesh  for  this  occasion. 
By  the  great  altar  in  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo  stand 
side  by  side  the  statues  of  Alonso  VIII.,  the  Chris- 
tian commander,  and  San  Isidro  brazenly  swelling 
in  the  shepherd  garb  of  that  unknown  guide  who 
led  Alonso  and  his  chivalry  through  the  tangled 
defiles  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

His  feU  is  the  Derby  Day  of  Madrid.  The 
whole  town  goes  out  to  his  Hermitage  on  the  fur- 
ther banks  of  the  Manzanares,  and  spends  a  day  or 
two  of  the  soft  spring  weather  in  noisy  frolic.  The 
little  church  stands  on  a  bare  brown  hill,  and  all 
about  it  is  an  improvised  village  consisting  half  of 
restaurants  and  the  other  half  of  toy-shops.  The 
principal  traffic  is  in  a  pretty  sort  of  glass  whistle 
which  forms  the  stem  of  an  artificial  rose,  worn  in 
the  button-hole  in  the  intervals  of  tooting,  and  little 
earthen  pig-bells,  whose  ringing  scares  away  the 
lightning.  There  is  but  one  duty  of  the  day  to 
flavor  all  its  pleasures.  The  faithful  must  go  into 
the  oratory,  pay  a  penny,  and  kiss  a  glass-covered 
relic  of  the  Saint  which  the  attendant  ecclesiastic 
holds  in  his  hand.  The  bells  are  rung  violently 
until  the  church  is  full ;  then  the  doors  are  shut 
and  the  kissing  begins.  They  are  very  expeditious 
about  it.     The  worshippers  drop  on  their  knees  by 


RED-LETTER  DAYS.  103 

platoons  before  the  railing.  The  long-robed  relic- 
keeper  puts  the  precious  trinket  rapidly  to  their 
lips  ;  an  acolyte  follows  with  a  saucer  for  the  cash. 
The  glass  grows  humid  with  many  breaths.  The 
priest  wipes  it  with  a  dirty  napkin  from  time  to 
time.  The  multitude  advances,  kisses,  pays,  and 
retires,  till  all  have  their  blessing ;  then  the  doors 
are  opened  and  they  all  pass  out,  —  the  bells  ring- 
ing furiously  for  another  detachment.  The  pleas-'^ 
ures  of  the  day  are  like  those  of  all  fairs  and  pub- 
lic merry-making.  Working  people  come  to  be  idle, 
and  idle  people  come  to  have  something  to  do. 
There  is  much  eating  and  little  drinking.  The 
milk-stalls  are  busier  than  the  wine-shops.  The 
people  are  gay  and  jolly,  but  very  decent  and  clean 
and  orderly.  To  the  east  of  the  Hermitage,  over 
and  beyond  the  green  cool  valley,  the  city  rises  on 
its  rocky  hills,  its  spires  shining  in  the  cloudless 
blue.  Below  on  the  emerald  meadows  there  are 
the  tents  and  wagons  of  those  who  have  come  from 
a  distance  to  the  Eomeria.  The  sound  of  guitars 
and  the  drone  of  peasant  songs  come  up  the  hill, 
and  groups  of  men  are  leaping  in  the  wild  barbaric 
dances  of  Iberia.  The  scene  is  of  another  day  and 
time.  The  Celt  is  here,  lord  of  the  land.  You  can 
see  these  same  faces  at  Donnybrook  Fair.  These 
large-mouthed,  short-nosed,  rosy-cheeked  peasant- 
^Is  are  called  Dolores  and  Catalina,  but  they  might 
be  called .  Bridget  and  Kathleen.     These  strapping 


104  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

fellows,  with  long  simian  upper  lips,  with  brown 
leggings  and  patched,  mud-colored  overcoats,  who 
are  leaping  and  swinging  their  cudgels  in  that 
Pyrrhic  round  are  as  good  Tipperary  boys  as  ever 
mobbed  an  agent  or  pounded,  twenty  to  one,  a 
landlord  to  death.  The  same  unquestioning,  fer- 
vent faith,  the  same  superficial  good-nature,  the 
same  facility  to  be  amused,  and  at  bottom  the  same 
cowardly  and  cruel  blood-thirst.  What  is  this 
mysterious  law  of  race  which  is  stronger  than  time, 
or  varying  climates,  or  changing  institutions  ?  Which 
j    is  cause,  and  which  is  effect,  race  or  religion  ? 

The  great  Church  holiday  of  the  year  is  Corpus 
Christi.  On  this  day  the  Host  is  carried  in  solemn 
procession  through  the  principal  streets,  attended  by 
the  high  officers  of  state,  several  battalions  of  each 
arm  of  the  service  in  fresh  bright  uniforms,  and  a 
vast  array  of  ecclesiastics  in  the  most  gorgeous 
stoles  and  chasubles  their  vestiary  contains.  The 
windows  along  the  line  of  march  are  gayly  decked 
with  flags  and  tapestry.  Work  is  absolutely  sus- 
pended, and  the  entire  population  dons  its  holiday 
garb.  The  Puerta  del  Sol  —  at  this  season  blazing 
with  relentless  light  —  is  crowded  with  patient 
Madrilenos  in  their  best  clothes,  the  brown-cheeked 
maidens  with  flowing  silks  as  in  a  ball-room,  and 
with  no  protection  against  the  ardent  sky  but  the 
fluttering  fan  they  hold  in  their  ungloved  hands. 
As  everything  is  behind  time  in  this  easy-going 


RED-LETTER  DAYS.  105 

land,  there  are  two  or  three  hours  of  broiling  gossip 
on  the  glowing  pavement  before  the  Sacred  Presence 
is  announced  by  the  ringing  of  silver  bells.  As  the 
superb  structure  of  filigree  gold  goes  by,  a  movement 
of  reverent  worship  vibrates  through  the  crowd.  For- 
getful of  silks  and  broadcloth  and  gossip,  they  faU 
on  their  knees  in  one  party-colored  mass,  and,  bow- 
ing their  heads  and  beating  their  breasts,  they  mut- 
ter their  mechanical  prayers.  There  are  thinking 
men  who  say  these  shows  are  necessary ;  that  the 
Latin  mind  must  see  with  bodily  eyes  the  thing  it 
worships,  or  the  worship  will  fade  away  from  its 
heart.  If  there  were  no  cathedrals  and  masses, 
they  say,  there  would  be  no  religion  ;  if  there  were 
no  king,  there  would  be  no  law.  But  we  should 
not  accept  too  hurriedly  this  ethnological  theory  of 
necessity,  which  would  reject  aU  principles  of  prog- 
ress and  positive  good,  and  condemn  half  the  human 
race  to  perpetual  childhood.  There  was  a  time  when 
we  Anglo-Saxons  built  cathedrals  and  worshipped 
the  king.  Look  at  Salisbury  and  Lincoln  and  Ely ; 
read  the  history  of  the  growth  of  parliaments. 
There  is  nothing  more  beautifully  sensuous  than 
the  religious  spirit  that  presided  over  those  master 
works  of  English  Gothic ;  there  is  nothing  in  life 
more  abject  than  the  relics  of  the  English  love  and 
fear  of  princes.  But  the  steady  growth  of  centuries 
has  left  nothing  but  the  outworn  shell  of  the  old 
religion  and  the  old  loyalty.     The  churches  and  the 

6* 


106  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

castles  still  exist.  The  name  of  the  king  still  is 
extant  in  the  Constitution.  They  remain  as  objects 
of  taste  and  tradition,  hallowed  by  a  thousand 
memories  of  earlier  days,  but,  thanks  be  to  God 
who  has  given  us  the  victory,  the  English  race  is 
now  incapable  of  making  a  new  cathedral  or  a  new 
king. 

Let  us  not  in  our  safe  egotism  deny  to  others  the 
possibility  of  a  like  improvement. 

This  summery  month  of  June  is  rich  in  saints. 
Thp  great  apostles,  John,  Peter,  and  Paul,  have  their 
anniversaries  on  its  closing  days,  and  the  shortest 
nights  of  the  year  are  given  up  to  the  riotous  eat- 
ing of  fritters  in  their  honor.  I  am  afraid  that  the 
progress  of  luxury  and  love  of  ease  has  wrought  a 
change  in  the  observance  of  these  festivals.  The 
feast  of  midsummer  night  is  called  the  Verbena  of 
St.  John,  which  indicates  that  it  was  formerly  a 
morning  solemnity,  as  the  vervain  could  not  be 
hunted  by  the  youths  and  maidens  of  Spain  with 
any  success  or  decorum  at  midnight.  But  of  late 
years  it  may  be  that  this  useful  and  fragrant  herb 
has  disappeared  from  th^  tawny  hills  of  Castile.  It 
is  sure  that  midsummer  has  grown  too  warm  for 
any  field  work.  So  that  the  Madrilenos  may  be 
pardoned  for  spending  the  day  napping,  and  swarm- 
ing into  the  breezy  Prado  in  the  light  of  moon  and 
stars  and  gas.  The  Prado  is  ordinarily  the  prome- 
nade of  the  better  classes,  but  every  Spanish  family 


BED-LETTER   DAYS.  107 

has  its  John,  Paul,  and  Peter,  and  the  crowded 
harrios  of  Toledo  and  the  Penuelas  pour  out  their 
ragged  hordes  to  the  popular  festival.  The  scene 
has  a  strange  gypsy  wildness.  From  the  round 
point  of  Atocha  to  where  Cybele,  throned  among 
spouting  waters,  drives  southward  her  spanking 
team  of  marble  lions,  the  park  is  filled  with  the 
merry  roysterers.  At  short  intervals  are  the  busy 
groups  of  fritter  merchants  ;  over  the  crackling  fire 
a  great  caldron  of  boiling  oil ;  beside  it  a  mighty 
bowl  of  dough.  The  hwriolero,  with  the  swift  pre- 
cision of  machinery,  dips  his  hand  into  the  bowl 
and  makes  a  delicate  ring  of  the  tough  dough,  which 
he  throws  into  the  bubbling  caldron.  It  remains 
but  a  few  seconds,  and  his  grimy  acolyte  picks  it 
out  with  a  long  wire  and  throws  it  on  the  tray  for 
sale.  They  are  eaten  warm,  the  droning  cry  con- 
tinually sounding,  "  Bunuelos !  Calientitos ! "  There 
must  be  millions  of  these  oily  dainties  consumed 
on  every  night  of  the  Verbena.  For  the  more 
genteel  revellers,  the  Don  Juans,  Pedros,  and  Pablos 
of  the  better  sort,  there  are  improvised  restaurants 
built  of  pine  planks  after  sunset  and  gone  before 
sunrise.  But  the  greater  number  are  bought  and 
eaten  by  the  loitering  crowd  from  the  tray  of  the 
fritterman.  It  is  like  a  vast  gitano-camp.  The 
hurrying  crowd  which  is  going  nowhere,  the  blazing 
fires,  the  cries  of  the  venders,  the  songs  of  the  majos 
under  the  great  trees  of  the  Paseo,  the  purposeless 


108  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

hurly-burly,  and  above,  the  steam  of  the  boiling  oil 
and  the  dust  raised  by  the  myriad  feet,  form  to- 
gether a  striking  and  vivid  picture.  The  city  is 
more  than  usually  quiet.  The  stir  of  life  is  localized 
in  the  Prado.  The  only  busy  men  in  town  are 
those  who  stand  by  the  seething  oil-pots  and  manu- 
facture the  brittle  forage  of  the  browsing  herds.  It 
is  a  jealous  business,  and  requires  the  undivided 
attention  of  its  professors.  The  ne  sutor  ultra  cre- 
jtidam  of  Spanish  proverb  is  "Buiiolero  haz  tus 
bunuelos,"  —  Fritterman,  mind  thy  fritters. 

With  the  long  days  and  cooler  airs  of  the  autumn 
begin  the  different  fairs.  These  are  relics  of  the 
times  of  tyranny  and  exclusive  privilege,  when  for 
a  few  days  each  year,  by  the  intervention  of  the 
Church,  or  as  a  reward  for  civic  service,  full  liberty 
of  barter  and  sale  was  allowed  to  all  citizens.  This 
custom,  more  or  less  modified,  may  be  found  in 
most  cities  of  Europe.  The  boulevards  of  Paris 
swarm  with  little  booths  at  Christmas-time,  which 
begin  and  end  their  lawless  commercial  life  within 
the  week.  In  Vienna,  in  Leipsic,  and  other  cities, 
the  same  waste- weir  of  irregular  trade  is  periodical- 
ly opened.  These  fairs  begin  in  Madrid  with  the 
autumnal  equinox,  and  continue  for  some  weeks  in 
October.  They  disappear  from  the  Alcala  to  break 
out  with  renewed  virulence  in  the  avenue  of  Atocha, 
and  girdle  the  city  at  last  with  a  belt  of  booths 
While  they  last  they  give  great  animation  and  spirit 


RED-LETTER   DAYS.  109 

to  the  street  life  of  the  town.  You  can  scarcely 
make  your  way  among  the  heaps  of  gaudy  shawls 
and  handkerchiefs,  cheap  laces  and  illegitimate 
jewels,  that  cumber  the  pavement.  When  the 
Jews  were  driven  out  of  Spain,  they  left  behind 
the  true  genius  of  bargaining.  A  nut-brown  maid 
is  attracted  by  a  brilliant  red  and  yellow  scarf.  She 
asks  the  sleepy  merchant  nodding  before  his  wares, 
"  What  is  this  rag  worth  ? "  He  answers  with  pro- 
found indifference,  "  Ten  reals." 

"  Hombre  !  Are  you  dreaming  or  crazy  ? "  She 
drops  the  coveted  neck-gear,  and  moves  on,  ap- 
parently horror-stricken. 

The  chapman  calls  her  back  peremptorily :  "  Don't 
be  rash  !  The  scarf  is  worth  twenty  reals,  but  for 
the  sake  of  Santisinui  Maria  I  offered  it  to  you  for 
half-price.  Very  well !  You  are  not  suited.  What 
will  you  give  ?  " 

"  Caramba !  Am  I  buyer  and  seller  as  well  ? 
The  thing  is  worth  three  reals  ;  more  is  a  robbery." 

"  Jesus  !  Maria  !  Jos6  !  and  all  the  family  !  Go 
thou  with  God !  We  cannot  trade.  Sooner  than 
sell  for  less  than  eight  reals  I  will  raise  the  cover 
of  my  brains  !  Go  thou  !  It  is  eight  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  still  thou  dreamest." 

She  lays  down  the  scarf  reluctantly,  saying, 
"  Five  ? "  But  the  outraged  mercer  snorts  scorn- 
fully, "  Eight  is  my  last  word !     Go  to  ! " 

She  moves  away,  thinking  how  well  that  scarf 


110  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

would  look  in  the  Apollo  Gardens,  and  casts  ovei 
her  shoulder  a  Parthian  glance  and  bid,  "  Six ! " 

"  Take  it !  It  is  madness,  but  I  cannot  waste  my 
time  in  bargaining." 

Both  congratulate  themselves  on  the  operation. 
He  would  have  taken  five,  and  she  would  have 
given  seven.  How  trade  would  suffer  if  we  had 
windows  in  our  breasts! 

The  first  days  of  November  are  consecrated  to  all 
the  saints,  and  to  the  souls  of  all  the  blessed  dead. 
They  are  observed  in  Spain  with  great  solemnity  ; 
but  as  the  cemeteries  are  generally  of  the  dreariest 
character,  bare,-  bleak,  and  most  forbidding  under 
the  ashy  sky  of  the  late  autumn,  the  days  are  de- 
prived of  that  exquisite  sentiment  that  pervades 
them  in  countries  where  the  gtaves  of  the  dead  are 
beautiful.  There  is  nothing  more  touching  than 
these  offerings  of  memory  you  see  every  year  in 
Mont  Pamasse  and  Pere-la-Chaise.  Apart  from  all 
beliefs,  there  is  a  mysterious  influence  for  good  exerted 
upon  the  living  by  the  memory  of  the  beloved  dead. 
On  all  hearts  not  utterly  corrupt,  the  thoughts  that 
come  by  the  graves  of  the  departed  fall  like  dew 
from  heaven,  and  quicken  into  life  purer  and  higher 
resolves. 

In  Spain,  where  there  is  nothing  but  desolation 
in  grave-yards,  the  churches  are  crowded  instead, 
and  the  bereaved  survivors  commend  to  God  their 
departed  friends  and  their  own  stricken  hearts  in 


EED-LETTER  DAYS.  Ill 

the  dim  and  perfumed  aisles  of  temples  made  with 
hands.  A  taint  of  gloom  thus  rests  upon  the  recol- 
lection and  the  prayer,  far  different  from  the  con- 
solation that  comes  with  the  free  air  and  the  sim- 
shine,  and  the  infinite  blue  vault,  where  Nature 
conspires  with  revelation  to  comfort  and  cherish  and 
console. 

Christmas  apparently  comes  in  Spain  on  no  other 
mission  than  that  referred  to  in  the  old  English 
couplet,  "  bringing  good  cheer."  The  Spaniards  are 
the  most  frugal  of  people,  but  during  the  days  that 
precede  their  Noche  Buena,  their  Good  Night,  they 
seem  to  be  given  up  as  completely  to  cares  of  the 
commissariat  as  the  most  eupeptic  of  Germans. 
Swarms  of  turkeys  are  driven  in  from  the  sur- 
rounding country,  and  taken  about  the  streets  by 
their  rustic  herdsmen,  making  the  roads  gay  with 
their  scarlet  wattles,  and  waking  rural  memories  by 
their  vociferous  gobbling.  The  great  market-place 
of  the  season  is  the  Plaza  Mayor.  The  ever-fruit- 
ful provinces  of  the  South  are  laid  under  contribu- 
tion, and  the  result  is  a  wasteful  show  of  tropical 
luxuriance  that  seems  most  incongruous  under  the 
wintry  sky.  There  are  mountains  of  oranges  and 
dates,  brown  hillocks  of  nuts  of  every  kind,  store 
of  every  product  of  this  versatile  soil.  The  air  is 
filled  with  nutty  and  fruity  fragrance.  Under  the 
ancient  arcades  are  the  stalls  of  the  butchers,  rich 
with  the  mutton  of  Castile,  the  hams  of  Estrema- 


112  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

dura,  and  the  hero-nourishing  bull-beef  of  Andalu- 
sian  pastures. 

At  night  the  town  is  given  up  to  harmless  racket 
Nowhere  has  the  tradition  of  the  Latin  Saturnalia 
been  fitted  with  less  change  into  the  Christian 
calendar.  Men,  women,  and  children  of  the  prole- 
tariat —  the  unemancipated  slaves  of  necessity  — 
go  out  this  night  to  cheat  their  misery  with  noisy 
frolic.  The  owner  of  a  tambourine  is  the  equal  of 
a  peer ;  the  proprietor  of  a  guitar  is  the  captain  of 
his  hundred.  They  troop  through  the  dim  city  with 
discordant  revel  and  song.  They  have  little  idea  of 
music.  Every  one  sings  and  sings  ill.  Every  one 
dances,  without  grace  or  measure.  Their  music  is 
a  modulated  howl  of  the  East.  Their  dancing  is 
the  savage  leaping  of  barbarians.  There  is  no  lack 
of  couplets,  religious,  political,  or  amatory.  I  heard 
one  ragged  woman  with  a  brown  baby  at  her  breast 
go  shrieking  through  the  Street  of  the  Magdalen,  — 

**  This  is  the  eve  of  Christmas, 
No  sleep  from  now  till  mom, 
The  Virgin  is  in  travail, 
At  twelve  will  the  child  be  bom ! " 

Behind  her  stumped  a  crippled  beggar,  who  croaked 
in  a  voice  rough  with  frost  and  aguardiente  his  deep 
disillusion  and  distrust  of  the  great :  — 

**  This  is  the  eve  of  Christmas, 
But  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
We  are  ruled  by  thieves  and  robbers. 
As  it  was  and  will  always  be." 


RED-LETTER   DAYS.  113 

Next  comes  a  shouting  band  of  the  youth  of 
Spain,  strapping  boys  with  bushy  locks,  crisp  and 
black  almost  to  blueness,  and  gay  young  girls  with 
flexible  forms  and  dark  Arab  eyes  that  shine  with 
a  phosphorescent  light  in  the  shadows.  They  troop 
on  with  clacking  castanets.  The  challenge  of  the 
mozos  rings  out  on  the  frosty  air,  — 

"  This  is  the  eve  of  Christinas, 

Let  us  drink  and  love  our  fill !  " 

And  the  saucy  antiphon  of  girlish  voices  responds, — 

"  A  man  may  be  bearded  and  gray, 
But  a  woman  can  fool  him  still !  " 

The  Christmas  and  New- Year's  holidays  continue 
for  a  fortnight,  ending  with  the  Epiphany.  On  the 
eve  of  the  Day  of  the  Kings  a  curious  farce  is  per- 
formed by  bands  of  the  lowest  orders  of  the  people, 
which  demonstrates  the  apparently  endless  naivete 
of  their  class.  In  every  coterie  of  water-carriers, 
or  mozos  de  cordel,  there  will  be  one  found  innocent 
enough  to  believe  that  the  Magi  are  coming  to  Ma- 
drid that  night,  and  that  a  proper  respect  to  their 
rank  requires  that  they  must  be  met  at  the  city 
gate.  To  perceive  the  coming  of  their  feet,  beauti- 
ful upon  the  mountains,  a  ladder  is  necessary,  and 
the  poor  victim  of  the  comedy  is  loaded  with  this 
indispensable  "property."  He  is  dragged  by  his 
gay  companions,  who  never  tire  of  the  exquisite 
wit  of  their  jest,  from  one  gate  to  another,  until 


114  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

suspicion  supplants  faith  in  the  mind  of  the  neo< 
phyte,  and  the  farce  is  over. 

In  the  burgher  society  of  Castile  this  night  is 
devoted  to  a  very  different  ceremony.  Each  little 
social  circle  comes  together  in  a  house  agreed  upon. 
They  take  mottoes  of  gilded  paper  and  write  on 
each  the  name  of  some  one  of  the  company.  The 
names  of  the  ladies  are  thrown  into  one  urn,  and 
those  of  the  cavaliers  into  another,  and  they  are 
drawn  out  by  pairs.  These  couples  are  thus  con- 
demned by  fortune  to  intimacy  during  the  year.  The 
gentleman  is  always  to  be  at  the  orders  of  the  dame 
and  to  serve  her  faithfully  in  every  knightly  fashion 
He  has  all  the  duties  and  none  of  the  privileges  of 
a  lover,  unless  it  be  the  joy  of  those  "  who  stand 
and  wait."  The  relation  is  very  like  that  which 
so  astonished  M.  de  Gramont  in  his  visit  to  Pied- 
mont, where  the  cavalier  of  service  never  left  his 
mistress  in  public  and  never  approached  her  in 
private. 

The  true  Carnival  survives  in  its  naive  purity 
only  in  Spain.  It  has  faded  in  Kome  into  a  romp- 
ing day  of  clown's  play.  In  Paris  it  is  little  more 
than  a  busier  season  for  dreary  and  professional 
vice.  Elsewhere  all  over  the  world  the  Carnival 
gayeties  are  confined  to  the  salon.  But  in  Madrid 
the  whole  city,  from  gxandee  to  cordwainer,  goes 
with  childlike  earnestness  into  the  enjoyment  of 
the  hour.     The  Corso  begins  in  the  Prado  on  the 


RED-LETTER  DAYS.  115 

last  Sunday  before  Lent,  and  lasts  four  days.  From 
noon  to  night  the  great  drive  is  filled  with  a  double 
line  of  carriages  two  miles  long,  and  between  them 
are  the  landaus  of  the  favored  hundreds  who  have 
the  privilege  of  driving  up  and  down  free  from  the 
law  of  the  road.  This  right  is  acquired  by  the  pay- 
ment of  ten  dollars  a  day  to  city  charities,  and  pro- 
duces some  fifteen  thousand  dollars  every  Carnival. 
In  these  carriages  all  the  society  of  Madrid  may  be 
seen ;  and  on  foot,  darting  in  and  out  among  the 
hoofs  of  the  horses,  are  the  young  men  of  Castile 
in  every  conceivable  variety  of  absurd  and  fantastic 
disguise.  There  are  of  course  pirates  and  Indians 
and  Turks,  monks,  prophets,  and  kings,  but  the 
favorite  costumes  seem  to  be  the  Devil  and  the 
Englishman.  Sometimes  the  Yankee  is  attempted, 
with  indifferent  success.  He  wears  a  ribbon-wreathed 
Italian  bandit's  hat,  an  embroidered  jacket,  slashed 
buckskin  trousers,  and  a  wide  crimson  belt,  —  a  dress 
you  would  at  once  recognize  as  universal  in  Boston. 
Most  of  the  maskers  know  by  name  at  least  the 
occupants  of  the  carriages.  There  is  always  room 
for  a  mask  in  a  coach.  They  leap  in,  swarming 
over  the  back  or  the  sides,  and  in  their  shrill  mo- 
notonous scream  they  make  the  most  startling 
revelations  of  the  inmost  secrets  of  your  soul. 
There  is  always  something  impressive  in  the  talk 
of  an  unknown  voice,  but  especially  is  this  so  in 
Madrid,  where  every  one  scorns  his  own  business, 


116  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  devotes  himself  rigorously  to  his  neighbor's. 
These  shrieking  young  monks  and  devilkins  often 
surprise  a  half-formed  thought  in  the  heart  of  a  fair 
Castilian  and  drag  it  out  into  day  and  derision.  No 
one  has  the  right  to  be  offended.  Duchesses  are 
called  Tu !  Isabel !  by  chin-dimpled  school-boys,  and 
the  proudest  beauties  in  Spain  accept  bonbons  from 
plebeian  hands.  It  is  true,  most  of  the  maskers 
are  of  the  better  class.  Some  of  the  costumes  are 
very  rich  and  expensive,  of  satin  and  velvet  heavy 
with  gold.  I  have  seen  a  distinguished  diplomatist 
in  the  guise  of  a  gigantic  canary-bird,  hopping  brisk- 
ly about  in  the  mud  with  bedraggled  tail-feathers, 
shrieking  well-bred  sarcasms  with  his  yellow  beak. 
The  charm  of  the  Madrid  Carnival  is  this,  that  it 
is  respected  and  believed  in.  The  best  and  fairest 
pass  the  day  in  the  Corso,  and  gallant  young  gentle- 
men think  it  worth  while  to  dress  elaborately  for  a 
few  hours  of  harmless  and  spirituelle  intrigue.  A 
society  that  enjoys  a  holiday  so  thoroughly  has 
something  in  it  better  than  the  blas4  cynicism  of 
more  civilized  capitals.  These  young  fellows  talk 
like  the  lovers  of  the  old  romances.  I  have  never 
heard  prettier  periods  of  devotion  than  from  some 
gentle  savage,  stretched  out  on  the  front  seat  of  a 
landau  under  the  peering  eyes  of  his  lady,  safe  in 
his  disguise  if  not  self-betrayed,  pouring  out  his 
young  soul  in  passionate  praise  and  prayer ;  around 
them  the  laughter  and  the  cries,  the  cracking  of 


RED-LETTER   DAYS.  117 

whips,  the  roll  of  wheels,  the  presence  of  countless 
thousands,  and  yet  these  two  young  hearts  alone 
under  the  pale  winter  sky.  The  rest  of  the  Conti- 
nent has  outgrown  the  true  Carnival.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  see  this  gay  relic  of  simpler  times,  when 
youth  was  young.  No  one  here  is  too  "  swell "  for 
it.  You  may  find  a  duke  in  the  disguise  of  a 
chimney-sweep,  or  a  butcher-boy  in  the  dress  of  a 
Crusader.  There  are  none  so  great  that  their  dig- 
nity would  suffer  by  a  day's  reckless  foolery,  and 
there  are  none  so  poor  that  they  cannot  take  the 
price  of  a  dinner  to  buy  a  mask  and  cheat  their 
misery  by  mingling  for  a  time  with  their  betters  in 
the  wild  license  of  the  Carnival. 

The  winter's  gayety  dies  hard.  Ash  Wednesday 
is  a  day  of  loud  merriment  and  is  devoted  to  a 
popular  ceremony  called  the  Burial  of  the  Sardine. 
A  vast  throng  of  workingmen  carry  with  great 
pomp  a  link  of  sausage  to  the  bank  of  the  Manza- 
nares  and  inter  it  there  with  great  solemnity.  On 
the  following  Saturday,  after  three  days  of  death, 
the  Carnival  has  a  resurrection,  and  the  maddest, 
wildest  ball  of  the  year  takes  place  at  the  Opera. 
Then  the  sackcloth  and  ashes  of  Lent  come  down 
in  good  earnest  and  the  town  mourns  over  its  scarlet 
sins.  It  used  to  be  very  fashionable  for  the  gen- 
teel Christians  to  repair  during  this  season  of  morti- 
fication to  the  Church  of  San  Gines,  and  scourge 
themselves  lustily  in  its   subterranean   chambers. 


118  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

A  still  more  striking  demonstration  was  for  gentle- 
men in  love  to  lash  themselves  on  the  sidewalks 
where  passed  the  ladies  of  their  thoughts.  If  the 
blood  from  the  scourges  sprinkled  them  as  they 
sailed  by,  it  was  thought  an  attention  no  female 
heart  could  withstand.  But  these  wholesome  cus- 
toms have  decayed  of  late  imbelieving  years. 

The  Lenten  piety  increases  with  the  lengthening 
days.  It  reaches  its  climax  on  Holy  Thursday. 
On  this  day  all  Spain  goes  to  church :  it  is  one  of 
the  obligatory  days.  The  more  you  go,  the  better 
for  you ;  so  the  good  people  spend  the  whole  day 
from  dawn  to  dusk  roaming  from  one  church  to 
another,  and  investing  an  Ave  and  a  Pater-Noster 
in  each.  This  fills  every  street  of  the  city  with  the 
pious  crowd.  No  carriages  are  permitted.  A  silence 
like  that  of  Venice  falls  on  the  rattling  capital. 
With  three  hundred  thousand  people  in  the  street, 
the  town  seems  still.  In  1870,  a  free-thinking  cab- 
man dared  to  drive  up  the  Calle  Alcala.  He  was 
dragged  from  his  box  and  beaten  half  to  death  by 
the  chastened  mourners,  who  yelled  as  they  kicked 
and  cuffed  him,  "  Que  bruto !  He  wiU  wake  our 
Jesus." 

On  Good  Friday  the  gloom  deepens.  No  colors 
are  worn  that  day  by  the  orthodox.  The  senoras 
appear  on  the  street  in  funeral  garb.  I  saw  a  group 
of  fast  youths  come  out  of  the  jockey  club, 
black  from  hat  to  boots,  with  jet  studs  and  sleeve- 


RED-LETTER   DAYS.  119 

buttons.  The  gayest  and  prettiest  ladies  sit  within 
the  church  doors  and  beg  in  the  holy  name  of 
charity,  and  earn  large  sums  for  the  poor.  There 
are  hourly  services  in  the  churches,  passionate  ser- 
mons from  all  the  pulpits.  The  streets  are  free 
from  the  painted  haunters  of  the  pavement.  The 
whole  people  tastes  the  luxury  of  a  sentimental 
sorrow. 

Yet  in  these  heavy  days  it  is  not  the  Eedeemer 
whose  sufferings  and  death  most  nearly  touch  the 
hearts  of  the  faithful.  It  is  Santisima  Maria  who 
is  worshipped  most.  It  is  the  Dolorous  Mother 
who  moves  them  to  tears  of  tenderness.  The  pre- 
siding deity  of  these  final  days  of  meditation  is  Our 
Lady  of  Solitude. 

But  at  last  the  days  of  mourning  are  accom- 
plished. The  expiation  for  sin  is  finished.  The 
grave  is  vanquished,  death  is  swallowed  up  in  vic- 
tory. Man  can  turn  from  the  grief  that  is  natural 
to  the  joy  that  is  eternal.  From  every  steeple  the 
bells  fling  out  their  happy  clangor  in  glad  tidings 
of  great  joy.  The  streets  are  flooded  once  more 
with  eager  multitudes,  gay  as  in  wedding  garments. 
Christ  has  arisen  !  The  heathen  myth  of  the 
awakening  of  nature  blends  the  old  tradition  with 
the  new  gospel.  The  vernal  breezes  sweep  the  skies 
clean  and  blue.  Birds  are  pairing  in  the  budding 
trees.  The  streams  leap  down  from  the  melting 
snow  of  the  hills.     The  brown  turf  takes  a  tint  of 


120  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

verdure.  Through  the  vast  frame  of  things  runs  a 
quick  shudder  of  teeming  power.  In  the  heart  of 
man  love  and  will  mingle  into  hope.  Hail  to  the 
new  life  and  the  ever-new  religion  !  Hail  to  the 
resurrection  morning ! 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.  121 


AN  HOUE  WITH  THE  PAINTEES. 

As  a  general  thing  it  is  well  to  distrust  a 
Spaniard's  superlatives.  He  will  tell  you  that  his 
people  are  the  most  amiable  in  the  world,  but  you 
will  do  well  to  carry  your  revolver  into  the  interior. 
He  will  say  there  are  no  wines  worth  drinking  but 
the  Spanish,  but  you  will  scarcely  forswear  CUc- 
quot  and  Yquem  on  the  mere  faith  of  his  asser- 
tion. A  distinguished  general  once  gravely  as- 
sured me  that  there  was  no  literature  in  the  world 
at  all  to  be  compared  with  the  productions  of  the 
Castilian  mind.  All  others,  he  said,  were  but  pale 
imitations  of  Spanish  master-work.  Now,  though 
you  may  be  shocked  at  learning  such  unfavorable 
facts  of  Shakespeare  and  Goethe  and  Hugo,  you 
will  hardly  condemn  them  to  an  Auto  da  f^,  on  the 
testimony  even  of  a  grandee  of  Spain. 

But  when  a  Spaniard  assures  you  that  the  picture 
gallery  of  Madrid  is  the  finest  in  the  world,  you 
may  believe  him  without  reserve.  He  probably 
does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about.  He  may 
never  have  crossed  the  Pyrenees.  He  has  no  dream 
of  the  glories  of  Dresden,  or  Florence,  or  the  Louvre. 
It  is  even  possible  that  he  has  not  seen  the  match- 

6 


122  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

less  collection  he  is  boasting  of.  '  He  crowns  it  with 
a  sweeping  superlative  simply  because  it  is  Spanish. 
But  the  statement  is  nevertheless  true. 

The  reason  of  this  is  found  in  that  gigantic  and 
overshadowing  fact  which  seems  to  be  an  explana- 
tion of  everything  in  Spain,  —  the  power  and  the 
tyranny  of  the  House  of  Austria.  The  period  of 
the  vast  increase  of  Spanish  dominion  coincided 
with   that   of  the  meridian   glory  of  Italian   art. 

'  The  conquest  of  Granada  was  finished  as  the  divine 
child  Kaphael  began  to  meddle  with  his  father's 
brushes  and  pallets,  and  before  his  short  life  ended 

'  Charles,  Burgess  of  Ghent,  was  Emperor  and  King. 

^The  dominions  he  governed  and  transmitted  to  his 
son  embraced  Spain,  the  Netherlands,  Franche- 
Comt^,  the  Milanese,  Naples,  and  Sicily ;  that  is  to 
say,  those  regions  where  art  in  that  age  and  the 
next  attained  its  supreme  development.  He  was 
also  lord  of  the  New  World,  whose  inexhaustible 
mines  poured  into  the  lap  of  Europe  a  constant 
stream  of  gold.  Hence  came  the  riches  and  the 
leisure  necessary  to  art. 

Charles  V.,  as  well  as  his  great  contemporary  and 
rival,  Francis  I.,  was  a  munificent  protector  of  art. 
He  brought  from  Italy  and  Antwerp  some  of  the 
most  perfect  products  of  their  immortal  masters. 
He  was  the  friend  and  patron  of  Titian,  and  when, 
weary  of  the  world  and  its  vanities,  he  retired  to 
the  lonely  monastery  of  Yuste  to  spend  in  devout 


AN  HOUR   WITH  THE   PAINTERS.  123 

contemplation  the  evening  of  his  days,  the  most 
precious  solace  of  his  solitude  was  that  noble  can- 
vas of  the  great  Venetian,  where  Charles  and  Philip 
are  borne,  in  penitential  guise  and  garb,  on  lumi- 
nous clouds  into  the  visible  glory  of  the  Most  Higli. 
These  two  great  kings  made  a  good  use  of  their 
unbounded  opportunities.  Spain  became  illumi- 
nated with  the  glowing  canvases  of  the  incom- 
parable Italians.  The  opening  up  of  the  New 
World  beyond  seas,  the  meteoric  career  of  Euro- 
pean and  African  conquest  in  which  the  Emperor 
had  won  so  much  land  and  glory,  had  given  an 
awakening  shock  to  the  intelligent  youth  of  Spain, 
and  sent  them  forth  in  every  avenue  of  enterprise. 
This  jealously  patriotic  race,  which  had  remained 
locked  up  by  the  mountains  and  the  seas  for  cen- 
turies, started  suddenly  out,  seeking  adventures 
over  the  earth.  The  mind  of  Spain  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  brightened  and  developed  like  that 
of  her  great  King,  who,  in  his  first  tourney  at  Val- 
ladolid,  WTote  with  proud  sluggishness  Nondum  — 
not  yet  —  on  his  maiden  shield,  and  a  few  years 
later  in  his  young  maturity  adopted  the  legend  of 
arrogant  hope  and  promise,  —  Plus  Ultra.  There 
were  seen  two  emigrations  of  the  young  men  of 
Spain,  eastward  and  westward.  The  latter  went 
for  gold  and  material  conquest  into  the  American 
wilds ;  and  the  former,  led  by  the  sacred  love  of 
art,  to  that  land  of  beauty  and  wonder,  then,  now. 


124  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  always  the  spiritual  shrine  of  all  peoples, — ■ 
Italy. 

A  brilliant  young  army  went  out  from  Spain  on 
this  new  crusade  of  the  beautiful.  From  the  plains 
of  Castile  and  the  liills  of  Navarre  went,  among 
others,  Berruguete,  Becerra,  and  the  marvellous 
deaf-mute  Navarrete.  The  luxurious  city  of  Valen- 
tia  sent  Juan  de  Juanes  and  Kibalta.  Luis  de  Var- 
gas went  out  from  Seville,  and  from  Cordova  the 
scholar,  artist,  and  thinker,  Paul  of  Cespedes.  The 
schools  of  Kome  and  Venice  and  Florence  were 
thronged  with  eager  pilgrims,  speaking  an  alien 
Latin  and  filled  with  a  childlike  wonder  and  ap- 
preciation. 

In  that  stirring  age  the  emigration  was  not  all  in 
one  direction.  Many  distinguished  foreigners  came 
down  to  Spain,  to  profit  by  the  new  love  of  art  in 
the  Peninsula.  It  was  Philip  of  Burgundy  who 
carved,  with  Berruguete,  those  miracles  of  skiU  and 
patience  we  admire  to-day  in  the  choir  of  Toledo. 
Peter  of  Champagne  painted  at  Seville  the  grand 
altar-piece  that  so  comforted  the  eyes  and  the  soul 
of  Murillo.  The  wild  Greek  bedouin,  George  Theo- 
tocopouli,  built  the  Mozarabic  chapel  andfiUed  the 
walls  of  convents  with  his  weird  ghost-faces.  Moor, 
or  Moro,  came  from  the  Low  Countries,  and  the 
Carducci  brothers  from  Italy,  to  seek  their  for- 
tunes in  Madrid.  Torrigiani,  after  breaking  Michael 
Angelo's  nose  in  Florence,  fled  to  Granada,  and  died 


AN  HOUR  WITH   THE   PAINTERS.  125 

in  a  prison  of  the  Inquisition  for  smashing  the  face 
of  a  Virgin  which  a  grandee  of  Spain  wanted  to 
steal  from  him. 

These  immigrations,  and  the  refluent  tide  of 
Spanish  students  from  Italy,  founded  the  various 
schools  of  Yalentia,  Toledo,  Seville,  and  Madrid. 
Madrid  soon  absorbed  the  school  of  Toledo,  and  the 
attraction  of  Seville  was  too  powerful  for  Valentia. 
The  Andalusian  school  counts  among  its  early  il- 
lustrations Vargas,  Koelas,  the  Castillos,  Herrera, 
Pacheco,  and  Moya,  and  among  its  later  glories 
Velazquez,  Alonzo  Cano,  Zurbaran,  and  Murillo, 
last  and  greatest  of  the  mighty  Hne.  The  school 
of  Madrid  begins  with  Berruguete  and  Navarrete, 
the  Italians  Caxes,  Eizi,  and  others,  who  are  fol- 
lowed by  Sanchez  Coello,  Pantoja,  Collantes.  Then 
comes  the  great  invader  Velazquez,  followed  by  his 
retainers  Pareja  and  Carreno,  and  absorbs  the  whole 
life  of  the  school.  Claudio  Coello  makes  a  good  fight 
against  the  rapid  decadence.  Luca  Giordano  comes 
rattling  in  from  Naples  with  his  whitewash-brush, 
painting  a  mile  a  minute,  and  classic  art  is  ended 
in  Spain  with  the  brief  and  conscientious  work  of 
Eaphael  Mengs. 

There  is  therefore  little  distinction  of  schools  in 
Spain.  Murillo,  the  glory  of  Seville,  studied  in 
Madrid,  and  the  mighty  Andalusian,  Velazquez,  per- 
formed his  enormous  life's  work  in  the  capital  of 
Castile. 


126  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

It  now  needs  but  one  word  to  show  how  the 
Museum  of  Madrid  became  so  rich  in  masterpieces. 
During  the  long  and  brilliant  reigns  of  Charles  V. 
and  Philip  II.,  when  art  had  arrived  at  its  apogee 
in  Italy,  and  was  just  beginning  its  splendid  career 
in  Spain,  these  powerful  monarchs  had  the  lion's 
share  of  aU  the  best  work  that  was  done  in  the 
world.  There  was  no  artist  so  great  but  he  was 
honored  by  the  commands  of  these  lords  of  the 
two  worlds.  They  thus  formed  in  their  various 
palaces,  pleasure-houses,  and  cloisters  a  priceless 
collection  of  pictures  produced  in  the  dawn  of  the 
Spanish  and  the  triumphant  hey-day  of  Italian 
genius.  Their  frivolous  successors  lost  provinces 
and  kingdoms,  honor  and  prestige,  but  they  never 
lost  their  royal  prerogative  nor  their  taste  for  the 
arts.  They  consoled  themselves  for  the  slings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  by  the  delights  of 
sensual  life,  and  imagined  they  preserved  some  dis- 
tant likeness  to  their  great  forerunners  by  encoura- 
ging and  protecting  Velazquez  and  Lope  de  Vega  and 
other  intellectual  giants  of  that  decaying  age.  So 
while,  as  the  result  of  a  vicious  system  of  kingly 
and  spiritual  thraldom,  the  intellect  of  Spain  was 
forced  away  from  its  legitimate  channels  of  thought 
and  action,  under  the  shadow  of  the  royal  preroga- 
tive, which  survived  the  genuine  power  of  the 
older  kings,  art  flourished  and  bloomed,  unsuspected 
and  unpersecuted  by  the  coward  jealousy  of  courtier 
and  monk. 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       127 

The  palace  and  the  convent  divided  the  product  ' 
of  those  marvellous  days.  Amid  all  the  poverty  of 
the  failing  state,  it  was  stQl  the  king  and  clergy 
who  were  best  able  to  appropriate  the  works  of 
genius.  This  may  have  contributed  to  the  decay 
of  art.  The  immortal  canvases  passed  into  obliv- 
ion in  the  salons  of  palaces  and  the  cells  of 
monasteries.  Had  they  been  scattered  over  the 
land  and  seen  by  the  people  they  might  have  kept 
alive  the  spark  that  kindled  their  creators.  But 
exclusiveness  is  inevitably  followed  by  barrenness. 
When  the  great  race  of  Spanish  artists  ended,  these 
matchless  works  were  kept  in  the  safe  obscurity  of 
palaces  and  religious  establishments.  History  was 
working  in  the  interests  of  this  Museum.  The 
pictures  were  held  by  the  clenched  dead  hand  of 
the  church  and  the  throne.  They  could  not  be  sold  » 
or  distributed.  They  made  the  dark  places  lumi-J 
nous,  patiently  biding  their  time. 

It  was  long  enough  coming,  and  it  was  a  des- 
picable hand  that  brought  them  into  the  light. 
Ferdinand  VII.  thought  his  palace  would  look 
fresher  if  the  waUs  were  covered  with  French 
paper,  and  so  packed  aU  the  pictures  off  to  the 
empty  building  on  the  Prado,  which  his  grand- 
father had  built  for  a  museum  As  soon  as  the 
glorious  collection  was  exposed  to  the  gaze  of 
the  world,  its  incontestable  merit  was  at  once 
recognized.     Especially  were  the  works  of  Velaz- 


128  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

quez,  hitherto  almost  an  unknown  name  in  Europe 
admired  and  appreciated.  Ferdinand,  finding  he 
had  done  a  clever  thing  unawares,  began  to  put  on 
airs  and  poser  for  a  patron  of  art.  The  gallery  was 
still  further  immensely  enriched  on  the  exclaustra^ 
tion  of  the  monasteries,  by  the  hidden  treasures  of 
the  Escorial,  and  other  spoils  of  mortmain.  And 
now,  as  a  collection  of  masterpieces,  it  has  no  equal 
in  the  world. 

A  few  figures  will  prove  this.  It  contains  more 
than  two  thousand  pictures  already  catalogued,  — 
all  of  them  worth  a  place  on  the  walls.  Among 
these  there  are  ten  by  Eaphael,  forty-three  by 
Titian,  thirty-four  by  Tintoret,  twenty-five  by 
Paul  Veronese.  Eubens  has  the  enormous  contin- 
gent of  sixty-four.  Of  Teniers,  whose  works  are 
sold  for  fabulous  sums  for  the  square  inch,  this  ex- 
traordinary museum  possesses  no  less  than  sixty 
finished  pictures,  —  the  Louvre  considers  itself 
rich  wdth  fourteen.  So  much  for  a  few  of  the 
foreigners.  Among  the  Spaniards  the  three  great- 
est names  could  alone  fill  a  gallery.  There  are 
sixty-five  Velazquez,  forty-six  Murillos,  and  fifty- 
eight  Eiberas.  Compare  these  figures  with  those 
of  any  other  gallery  in  existence,  and  you  will  at 
once  recognize  the  hopeless  superiority  of  this  col- 
lection. It  is  not  only  the  greatest  collection  in  the 
world,  but  the  greatest  that  can  ever  be  made  until 
this  is  broken  up. 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       129 

But  with  all  this  mass  of  wealth  it  is  not  a  com- 
plete, nor,  properly  speaking,  a  representative  mu- 
seum. You  cannot  trace  upon  its  walls  the  slow, 
groping  progress  of  art  towards  perfection.  It  con- 
tains few  of  what  the  book-lovers  call  incunabula. 
Spanish  art  sprang  out  full-armed  from  the  mature  ^ 
brain  of  Eome.  Juan  de  Juanes  came  back  from 
Italy  a  great  artist.  The  schools  of  Spain  were  J 
budded  on  a  fuU-bearing  tree.  Charles  and  Philip 
bought  masterpieces,  and  cared  little  for  the  crude 
efforts  of  the  awkward  pencils  of  the  necessary  men 
who  came  before  Eaphael.  There  is  not  a  Perugino 
in  Madrid.  There  is  nothing  Byzantine,  no  trace 
of  Eenaissance;  nothing  of  the  patient  work  of 
the  early  Flemings,  —  the  art  of  Flanders  comes 
blazing  in  with  the  full  splendor  of  Kubens  and 
Van  Dyck.  And  even  among  the  masters,  the 
representation  is  most  unequal.  Among  the  wilder- 
ness of  Titians  and  Tintorets  you  find  but  two 
Domenichinos  and  two  Correggios.  Even  in  Spanish 
art  the  gallery  is  far  from  complete.  There  is  al- 
most nothing  of  such  genuine  painters  as  Zurbaran 
and  Herrera.  ^ 

But  recognizing  all  this,  there  is,  in  this  glorious 
temple,  enough  to  fiU  the  least  enthusiastic  lover 
of  art  with  delight  and  adoration  for  weeks  and 
months  together.  If  one  knew  he  was  to  be  blind 
in  a  year,  like  the  young  musician  in  Auerbach's 
exquisite  romance,  I  know  of  no  place  in  the  world 

6*  I 


13ft.  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

where  he  could  garner  up  so  precious  a  store  of 
memories  for  the  days  of  darkness,  memories  that 
would  haunt  the  soul  with  so  divine  a  light  of  con- 
lation,  as  in  that  graceful  Palace  of  the  Prado. 

It  would  be  a  hopeless  task  to  attempt  to  review 
with  any  detail  the  gems  of  this  collection.  My 
memory  is  filled  with  the  countless  canvases  that 
adorn  the  ten  great  halls.  If  I  refer  to  my  note- 
book I  am  equally  discouraged  by  the  number  I 
have  marked  for  special  notice.  The  masterpieces 
are  simply  innumerable.  I  will  say  a  word  of  each 
room,  and  so  give  up  the  unequal  contest. 

As  you  enter  the  Museum  from  the  north,  you 
are  in  a  wide  sturdy-columned  vestibule,  hung  with 
splashy  pictures  of  Luca  Giordano.  To  your  right 
is  the  room  devoted  to  the  Spanish  school ;  to  the 
left,  the  Italian.  In  front  is  the  grand  gallery  where 
the  greatest  works  of  both  schools  are  collected.  In 
the  Spanish  saloon  there  is  an  indefinable  air  of 
severity  and  gloom.  It  is  less  perfectly  lighted 
than  some  others,  and  there  is  something  forbidding 
in  the  general  tone  of  the  room.  There  are  prim 
portraits  of  queens  and  princes,  monks  in  contem- 
plation, and  holy  people  in  antres  vast  and  deserts 
idle.  Most  visitors  come  in  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
look  hurriedly  about,  and  go  out  with  a  conscience 
at  ease ;  in  fact,  there  is  a  dim  suggestion  of  the  ' 
fagot  and  the  rack  about  many  of  the  Spanish 
masters.     At  one  end  of  this  gallery  the  Prome- 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       131 

theus  of  Eibera  agonizes  chained  to  his  rock.  His 
gigantic  limbs  are  flung  about  in  the  fury  of  im- 
mortal pain.  A  vulture,  almost  lost  in  the  black- 
ness of  the  shadows,  is  tugging  at  his  vitals.  His 
brow  is  convulsed  with  the  pride  and  anguish  of  a 
demigod.  It  is  a  picture  of  horrible  power.  Op- 
posite hangs  one  of  the  few  Zurbarans  of  the  gal- 
lery, —  also  a  gloomy  and  terrible  work.  A  monk 
kneels  in  shadows  which,  by  the  masterly  chiaro- 
scuro of  this  ascetic  artist,  are  made  to  look  darker 
than  blackness.  Before  him  in  a  luminous  nimbus 
that  burns  its  way  through  the  dark,  is  the  image 
of  the  crucified  Saviour,  head  downwards.  So  re- 
markable is  the  vigor  of  the  drawing  and  the  power 
of  light  in  this  picture  that  you  can  imagine  you 
see  the  resplendent  crucifix  suddenly  thrust  into 
the  shadow  by  the  strong  hands  of  invisible  spirits, 
and  swayed  for  a  moment  only  before  the  dazzled 
eyes  of  the  ecstatic  solitary. 

But  after  you  have  made  friends  with  this  room 
it  will  put  off  its  forbidding  aspect,  and  you  will 
find  it  hath  a  stern  look  but  a  gentle  heart.  It 
has  two  lovely  little  landscapes  by  Murillo,  show- 
ing how  universal  was  that  wholesome  genius.  Also 
one  of  the  largest  landscapes  of  Velazquez,  which, 
when  you  stand  near  it,  seems  a  confused  mass  of 
brown  daubs,  but  stepping  back  a  few  yards  becomes 
a  most  perfect  view  of  the  entrance  to  a  royal  park. 
The  wide  gate  swings  on  its  pivot  before  your  eyes. 


132  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

A  court  cortege  moves  in,  —  the  long,  dark  alley 
stretches  off  for  miles  directly  in  front,  without  any 
trick  of  lines  or  curves  ;  the  artist  has  painted  the 
shaded  air.  To  the  left  a  patch  of  still  water  re- 
flects the  dark  wood,  and  above  there  is  a  distant 
and  tranquil  sky.  Had  Velazquez  not  done  such 
vastly  greater  things,  his  few  landscapes  would  alone 
have  won  him  fame  enough.  He  has  in  this  room 
a  large  number  of  royal  portraits,  —  one  especially 
worth  attention,  of  Philip  III.  The  scene  is  by  the 
shore,  —  a  cool  foreground  of  sandy  beach,  —  a 
blue-gray  stretch  of  rippled  water,  and  beyond,  a 
low  promontory  between  the  curling  waves  and  the 
cirrus  clouds.  The  king  mounts  a  magnificent 
gray  horse,  with  a  mane  and  tail  like  the  broken 
rush  of  a  cascade.  The  keeping  is  wonderful;  a 
fresh  sea  breeze  blows  out  of  the  canvas.  A  bril- 
liant bit  of  color  is  thrown  into  the  red,  gold-fringed 
scarf  of  the  horseman,  fluttering  backward  over  his 
shoulder.  Yet  the  face  of  the  king  is,  as  it  should 
be,  the  principal  point  of  the  picture,  —  the  small- 
eyed,  heavy-mouthed,  red-lipped,  fair,  self-satisfied 
face  of  these  Austrian  despots.  It  is  a  handsomer 
face  than  most  of  Velazquez,  as  it  was  probably 
painted  from  memory  and  lenient  tradition.  For 
Philip  III.  was  gathered  to  his  fathers  in  the  Escorial 
before  Velazquez  came  up  from  Andalusia  to  seek 
his  fortune  at  the  court.  The  first  work  he  did  in 
Madrid  was  to  paint  the  portrait  of  the  king,  which 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       133 

SO  pleased  his  Majesty  that  he  had  it  repeated  ad 
nauseam.  You  see  him  served  up  in  every  form  in 
this  gallery,  —  on  foot,  on  horseback,  in  full  armor, 
in  a  shooting  jacket,  at  picnics,  and  actually  on  his 
knees  at  his  prayers !  We  wonder  if  Velazquez 
ever  grew  tired  of  that  vacant  face  with  its  con- 
tented smirk,  or  if  in  that  loyal  age  the  smile  of 
royalty  was  not  always  the  sunshine  of  the  court  ? 

There  is  a  most  instructive  study  of  faces  in  the 
portraits  of  the  Austrian  line.  First  comes  Charles 
v.,  the  First  of  Spain,  painted  by  Titian  at  Augs- 
burg, on  horseback,  in  the  armor  he  wore  at  Muhl- 
berg,  his  long  lance  in  rest,  his  visor  up  over  the 
eager,  powerful  face,  —  the  eye  and  beak  of  an 
eagle,  the  jaw  of  a  bull-dog,  the  face  of  a  bom 
ruler,  a  man  of  prey.  And  yet  in  the  converging 
lines  about  the  eyes,  in  the  premature  gray  hair, 
in  the  nervous,  irritable  lips,  you  can  see  the  prom- 
ise of  early  decay,  of  an  age  that  will  be  the  spoil 
of  superstition  and  bigotry.  It  is  the  face  of  a  man 
who  could  make  himself  emperor  and  hermit.  In 
his  son,  Philip  II.,  the  soldier  dies  out  and  the  bigot 
is  intensified.  In  the  fine  portrait  by  Pantoja,  of 
Philip  in  his  age,  there  is  scarcely  any  trace  of  the 
fresh,  fair  youth  that  Titian  painted  as  Adonis.  It 
is  the  face  of  a  living  corpse ;  of  a  ghastly  pallor, 
heightened  by  the  dull  black  of  his  mourning  suit, 
where  aU  passion  and  feeling  has  died  out  of  the  livid 
lips  and  the  icy  eyes.    Beside  him  hangs  the  portrait 


134  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

of  his  rickety,  feebly  passionate  son,  the  unfortunate 
Don  Carlos.  The  forehead  of  the  young  Prince  is 
narrow  and  ill-formed ;  the  Austrian  chin  is  exag- 
gerated one  degree  more  ;  he  looks  a  picture  of  fit- 
ful impulse.  His  brother,  Philip  III.,  we  have  just 
seen,  fair  and  inane,  —  a  monster  of  cruelty,  who 
burned  Jews  and  banished  Moors,  not  from  malice, 
but  purely  from  vacuity  of  spirit ;  his  head  broadens 
like  a  pine-apple  from  the  blond  crest  to  the  plump 
jowls.     Every  one  knows  the  head  of  Philip  IV., 

—  he  was  fortunate  in  being  the  friend  of  Velaz- 
quez. The  high,  narrow  brow,  the  long,  weak  face, 
the  yellow  curled  mustache,  the  thick  red  lips,  and  the 
ever  lengthening  Hapsburg  chin.  But  the  line  of 
Austria  ends  with  the  utmost  limit  of  caricature  in 
the  face  of  Charles  the  Bewitched !  Carreno  has 
given  us  an  admirable  portrait  of  this  unfortunate, 

—  the  forehead  caved  in  like  the  hat  of  a  drunkard, 
the  red-lidded  eyes  staring  vacantly,  a  long,  thin 
nose  absurd  as  a  Carnival  disguise,  an  enormous 
mouth  which  he  could  not  shut,  the  under-jaw  pro- 
jected so  prodigiously,  —  a  face  incapable  of  any 
emotion  but  fear.  And  yet  in  gazing  at  this  idiotic 
mask  you  are  reminded  of  another  face  you  have 
somewhere  seen,  and  are  startled  to  remember  it  is 
the  resolute  face  of  the  warrior  and  statesman,  the 

\^  king  of  men,  the  Kaiser  Karl.  Yes,  this  pitiable 
being  was  the  descendant  of  the  great  Emperor,  and 
for  that  sufficient  reason,  although  he  was  an  im- 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       135 

potent  and  shivering  idiot,  although  he  could  not 
sleep  without  a  friar  in  his  bed  to  keep  the  devils 
away,  for  thirty-five  years  this  scarecrow^  ruled  over 
Spain,  and  dying  made  a  will  whose  accomplishment 
bathed  the  Peninsula  in  blood.  It  must  be  con- 
'fessed  this  institution  of  monarchy  is  a  luxury  that 
must  be  paid  for.  j 

We  did  not  intend  to  talk  of  politics  in  this  room, 
but  that  line  of  royal  effigies  was  too  tempting. 
Before  we  go,  let  us  look  at  a  beautiful  Magdalen 
in  penitence,  by  an  unknown  artist  of  the  school  of 
Murillo.  She  stands  near  the  entrance  of  her  cave, 
in  a  listening  attitude.  The  bright  out-of-door  light 
falls  on  her  bare  shoulder  and  gives  the  faintest 
touch  of  gold  to  her  dishevelled  brown  hair.  She 
casts  her  eyes  upward,  the  large  melting  eyes  of 
Andalusia  ~,  a  chastened  sorrow,  through  which  a 
trembling  hope  is  shining,  softens  the  somewhat 
worldly  beauty  of  her  exquisite  and  sensitive  face. 
Through  the  mouth  of  the  cave  we  catch  a  glimpse 
of  sunny  mountain  solitude,  and  in  the  rosy  air 
that  always  travels  with  Spanish  angels  a  band  of 
celestial  serenaders  is  playing.  It  is  a  charming 
composition,  without  any  depth  of  sentiment  or 
especial  mastery  of  treatment,  but  evidently  painted 
by  a  clever  artist  in  his  youth,  and  this  Magdalen 
is  the  portrait  of  the  lady  of  his  dreams.  None  of 
Murillo's  pupils  but  Tobar  could  have  painted  it, 
and  the  manner  is  precisely  the  same  as  that  of  his 
Divina  Pastora. 


136  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Across  the  hall  is  the  gallery  consecrated  to  Ital- 
ian artists.  ..There  are  not  many  pictures  of  the  first 
rank  here.  They  have  been  reserved  for  the  great 
central  gallery,  where  we  are  going.  But  while 
here,  we  must  notice  especially  two  glorious  works 
of  Tintoret,  —  the  same  subject  differently  treated, 
—  the  Death  of  Holofernes.  Both  are  placed  higher 
than  they  should  be,  considering  their  incontestable 
merit.  A  full  light  is  needed  to  do  justice  to  that 
magnificence  of  color  which  is  the  pride  of  Venice. 
There  are  two  remarkable  pictures  of  Giordano,  — 
one  in  the  Eoman  style,  which  would  not  be  un- 
worthy of  the  great  Sanzio  himself,  a  Holy  Family, 
drawn  and  colored  with  that  scrupulous  correctness 
which  seems  so  impossible  in  the  ordinary  products 
of  this  Protean  genius ;  and  just  opposite,  an  apo- 
theosis of  Eubens,  surrounded  by  his  usual  "  prop- 
erties" of  fat  angels  and  genii,  which  could  be 
readily  sold  anywhere  as  a  specimen  of  the  estimate 
which  the  unabashed  Fleming  placed  upon  himself. 
It  is  marvellous  that  any  man  should  so  master  the 
habit  and  the  thought  of  two  artists  so  widely  apart 
as  Eaphael  and  Eubens,  as  to  produce  just  such 
pictures  as  they  would  have  painted  upon  the  same 
themes.  The  halls  and  dark  corridors  of  the  Mu- 
seum are  filled  with  Giordano's  canvases.  In  less 
than  ten  years'  residence  in  Spain  he  covered  the 
walls  of  dozens  of  churches  and  palaces  with  his 
fatally  facile  work.     There  are  more  than  three  hun- 


AN   HOUR   WITH   THE   PAINTERS.  137 

dred  pictures  recorded  as  executed  by  him  in  that 
time.  They  are  far  from  being  without  merit.  There 
is  a  singular  slap-dash  vigor  about  his  drawing.  His 
coloring,  except  when  he  is  imitating  some  earlier 
master,  is  usually  thin  and  poor.  It  is  difficult  to 
repress  an  emotion  of  regret  in  looking  at  his  la- 
borious yet  useless  life.  With  great  talents,  with 
indefatigable  industry,  he  deluged  Europe  with 
paintings  that  no  one  cares  for,  and  passed  into  his- 
tory simply  as  Luca  Fa  Presto,  —  Luke  Work-Fast:  ^^.^ 

It  is  not  by  mere  activity  that  great  things  are  done  I 
in  art.  In  the  great  gaUery  we  now  enter  we  see  the 
deathless  work  of  the  men  who  wrought  in  faith. 
This  is  the  grandest  room  in  Christendom.  It  is  about  J, 
three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and  thirty-five 
broad  and  high.  It  is  beautifully  lighted  from  above. 
Its  great  length  is  broken  here  and  there  by  vases 
and  statues,  so  placed  between  doors  as  nowhere  to 
embarrass  the  view.  The  northern  half  of  the  gallery 
is  Spanish,  and  the  southern  half  Italian.  Half-way 
down,  a  door  to  the  left  opens  into  an  oval  chamber, 
devoted  to  an  eclectic  set  of  masterpieces  of  every 
school  and  age.  The  gaUery  ends  in  a  circular  room 
of  French  and  German  pictures,  on  either  side  of  which 
there  are  two  great  halls  of  Dutch  and  Flemish.  On 
the  ground  floor  there  are  some  hundreds  more 
Flemish  and  a  hall  of  sculpture. 

The  first  pictures  you  see  to  your  left  are  by  the 
early  masters  of  Spain,  —  Morales,  called  in  Spain 


138  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  Divine,  whose  works  are  now  extremely  rare> 
the  Museum  possessing  only  three  or  four,  long, 
^  fleshless  faces  and  stiff  figures  of  Christs  and 
'  Marys,  —  and  Juan  de  Juanes,  the  founder  of  the 
Valentian  school,  who  brought  back  from  Italy  the 
lessons  of  Raphael's  studio,  that  firmness  of  design 
and  brilliancy  of  color,  and  whose  genuine  merit 
^has  survived  aU  vicissitudes  of  changing  taste.  He 
has  here  a  superb  Last  Supper  and  a  spirited  series 
of  pictures  illustrating  the  martyrdom  of  Stephen. 
There  is  perhaps  a  little  too  much  elaboration  of 
detail,  even  for  the  Romans.  Stephen's  robes  are 
unnecessarily  new,  and  the  ground  where  he  is 
stoned  is  profusely  covered  with  convenient  round 
missiles  the  size  of  Vienna  rolls,  so  exactly  suited  to 
the  purpose  that  it  looks  as  if  Providence  sided  with 
the  persecutors.  But  what  a  wonderful  variety  and 
truth  in  the  faces  and  the  attitudes  of  the  groups  ! 
What  mastery  of  drawing,  and  what  honest  integrity 
of  color  after  all  these  ages !  It  is  reported  of 
Juanes  that  he  always  confessed  and  prayed  before 
venturing  to  take  up  his  pencils  to  touch  the  fea- 
tures of  the  saints  and  Saviours  that  shine  on 
his  canvas.  His  conscientious  fervor  has  its  re- 
ward. 

Across  the  room  are  the  Murillos.  Hung  to- 
gether are  two  pictures,  not  of  large  iimensions. 
but  of  exquisite  perfection,  which  will  serve  as  fair 
illustrations  of  the  work  of  his  youth  and  his  age  •, 


AN  HOUR   WITH   THE  PAINTERS.  139 

the  frio  and  the  vaporoso  manner.  In  the  former 
manner  is  this  charming  picture  of  Eebecca  at  the 
Well ;  a  graceful  composition,  correct  and  some- 
what severe  drawing,  the  greatest  sharpness  and 
clearness  of  outline.  In  the  "  Martyrdom  of  St. 
Andrew"  the  drawing  and  the  composition  is  no 
less  absolutely  perfect,  but  there  hangs  over  the 
whole  picture  a  luminous  haze  of  strangeness  and 
mystery.  A  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land 
bathes  the  distant  hills  and  battlements,  touches 
the  spears  of  the  legionaries,  and  shines  in  full 
glory  on  the  ecstatic  face  of  the  aged  saint.  It 
does  not  seem  a  part  of  the  scene.  You  see  the_^ 
picture  through  it.  A  step  further  on  there  is  a~] 
Holy  Family,  which  seems  to  me  the  ultimate  effort 
of  the  early  manner.  A  Jewish  carpenter  holds  his 
fair-haired  child  between  his  knees.  The  urchin 
holds  up  a  bird  to  attract  the  attention  of  a  little 
white  dog  on  the  floor.  The  mother,  a  dark-haired 
peasant  woman,  looks  on  the  scene  with  quiet 
amusement.  The  picture  is  absolutely  perfect  in 
detail.  It  seems  to  be  the  consigne  among  critics  to 
say  it  lacks  "  style."  They  say  it  is  a  family  scene 
in  Judaea,  voild  tout.  Of  course,  and  it  is  that  very 
truth  and  nature  that  makes  this  picture  so  fasci- 
nating. The  Word  was  made  flesh,  and  not  a  phos- 
phorescent apparition ;  and  Murillo  knew  what  he 
was  about  when  he  painted  this  view  of  the  inte- 
rior of  St.  Joseph's  shop.     What  absurd  presump- 


140  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

tion  to  accuse  this  great  thinker  of  a  deficiency  of 
ideality,  in  face  of  these  two  glorious  Marys  of 
the  Conception  that  fiU  the  room  with  light  and 
majesty !  They  hang  side  by  side,  so  alike  and  yet 
BO  distinct  in  character.  One  is  a  woman  in  knowl- 
edge and  a  goddess  of  purity ;  the  other,  absolute 
innocence,  startled  by  the  stupendous  revelation 
and  exalted  by  the  vaguely  comprehended  glory  of 
the  future.  It  is  before  this  picture  that  the  visitor 
always  lingers  longest.  The  face  is  the  purest  ex- 
pression of  girlish  loveliness  possible  to  art.  The 
Virgin  floats  upborne  by  rosy  clouds,  flocks  of  pink 
cherubs  flutter  at  her  feet  waving  palm-branches. 
The  golden  air  is  thick  with  suggestions  of  dim 
celestial  faces,  but  nothing  mars  the  imposing  soli- 
tude of  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  shrined  alone,  throned 
in  the  luminous  azure.  Surely  no  man  ever  under- 
stood or  interpreted  like  this  grand  Andalusian  the 
power  that  the  worship  of  woman  exerts  on  the 
religions  of  the  world.  All  the  passionate  love  that 
has  been  poured  out  in  all  the  ages  at  the  feet  of 
Ashtaroth  and  Artemis  and  Aphrodite  and  Freya 
found  visible  form  and  color  at  last  on  that  im- 
mortal canvas  where,  with  his  fervor  of  religion 
and  the  fuU  strength  of  his  virile  devotion  to  beauty, 
he  created,  for  the  adoration  of  those  who  should 
follow  him,  this  type  of  the  perfect  Feminine,  — 

**  Thee  !  standing  loveliest  in  the  open  heaven  f 
Ave  Maria  !  only  heaven  and  Thee !  " 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       141 

There  are  some  dozens  more  of  Murillo  here  al- 
most equally  remarkable,  but  I  cannot  stop  to  make 
an  unmeaning  catalogue  of  them.  There  is  a  charm- 
ing Gypsy  Fortune-teller,  whose  wheedling  voice  and 
smile  were  caught  and  fixed  in  some  happy  moment 
in  Seville  ;  an  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds,  wonder- 
ful in  its  happy  combination  of  rigid  truth  with  the 
warmest  glow  of  poetry ;  two  Annunciations,  rich 
with  the  radiance  that  streams  through  the  rent 
veil  of  the  innermost  heaven,  —  lights  painted  bold- 
ly upon  lights,  the  White  Dove  sailing  out  of  the 
dazzling  background  of  celestial  effulgence,  —  a 
miracle  and  mystery  of  theology  repeated  by  a 
miracle  and  mystery  of  art. 

Even  when  you  have  exhausted  the  Murillos  of 
the  Museum  you  have  not  reached  his  highest 
achievements  in  color  and  design.  You  wiU  find 
these  in  the  Academy  of  San  Fernando,  —  the 
Dream  of  the  Eoman  Gentleman,  and  the  Foimding 
of  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Greater;  and  the 
powerful  composition  of  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary, 
in  her  hospital  work.  In  the  first,  a  noble  Eoman 
and  his  wife  have  suddenly  fallen  asleep  in  their 
chairs  in  an  elegant  apartment.  Their  slumber  is 
painted  with  curious  felicity,  —  you  lower  your 
voice  for  fear  of  waking  them.  On  the  left  of  the 
picture  is  their  dream :  the  Virgin  comes  in  a  halo 
of  golden  clouds  and  designates  the  spot  where  her 
church  is  to  be  built.     In  the  next  picture  the 


142  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

happy  couple  kneel  before  the  Pope  and  expose  their 
high  commission,  and  outside  a  brilliant  procession 
moves  to  the  ceremony  of  the  laying  of  the  corner- 
stone. The  St.  Elizabeth  is  a  triumph  of  genius 
over  a  most  terribly  repulsive  subject.  The  wounds 
and  sores  of  the  beggars  are  painted  with  unshrink- 
ing fidelity,  but  every  vulgar  detail  is  redeemed  by 
the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  whole.  I  think  in 
these  pictures  of  Murillo  the  last  word  of  Spanish 
art  was  reached.  There  was  no  further  progress 
possible  in  life,  even  for  him.  "  Other  heights  in 
other  lives,  God  willing." 

Eeturning  to  the  Museum  and  to  Velazquez,  we 
find  ourselves  in  front  of  his  greatest  historical 
work,  the  Surrender  of  Breda.  This  is  probably  the 
most  utterly  unaffected  historical  painting  in  exist- 
ence. There  is  positively  no  stage  business  about 
it.  On  the  right  is  the  Spanish  staff,  on  the  left 
the  deputation  of  the  vanquished  Flemings.  In  the 
centre  the  great  Spinola  accepts  the  keys  of  the  city 
from  the  Governor ;  his  attitude  and  face  are  full  of 
dignity  softened  by  generous  and  affable  grace.  He 
lays  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  Flemish 
general,  and  you  can  see  he  is  paying  him  some 
chivalrous  compliment  on  the  gallant  fight  he  has 
lost.  If  your  eyes  wander  through  the  open  space 
between  the  two  escorts,  you  see  a  wonderful  wide- 
spread landscape  in  the  Netherlands,  which  would 
form  a  fine  picture  if  the  figures  all  were  gona 


AN  HOUR   WITH  THE  PAINTERS.  143 

Opposite  this  great  work  is  another  which  artists 
consider  greater,  —  Las  Meninas.  When  Luca  Gior- 
dano came  from  Italy  he  inquired  for  this  picture, 
and  said  on  seeing  it, "  This  is  the  theology  of  paint- 
ing." If  our  theology  were  what  it  should  be,  and 
cannot  be,  absolute  and  unquestionable  truth,  Luca 
the  Quick-worker  would  have  been  right.  Velaz- 
quez was  painting  the  portrait  of  a  stupid  little  In- 
fanta when  the  idea  came  to  him  of  perpetuating 
the  scene  just  as  it  was.  We  know  how  we  have 
wished  to  be  sure  of  the  exact  accessories  of  past 
events.  The  modem  rage  for  theatrical  local  color 
is  an  illustration  of  this  desire.  The  great  artist, 
who  must  have  honored  his  art,  determined  to  give 
to  future  ages  an  exact  picture  of  one  instant  of  his 
glorious  life.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  he  has  done 
this.  He  stands  before  his  easel,  his  pencils  in  his 
hand.  The  little  princess  is  stiffly  posing  in  the 
centre.  Her  little  maids  are  grouped  about  her. 
Two  hideous  dwarfs  on  the  right  are  teasing  a  noble 
dog  who  is  too  drowsy  and  magnanimous  to  growl. 
In  the  background  at  the  end  of  a  long  gallery  a 
gentleman  is  opening  a  door  to  the  garden.  The 
presence  of  royalty  is  indicated  by  the  reflection  of 
the  faces  of  the  king  and  queen  in  a  small  mirror, 
where  you  would  expect  to  see  your  own.  The 
longer  you  look  upon  this  marvellous  painting,  the 
less  possible  does  it  seem  that  it  is  merely  the 
placing  of  color  on  canvas  which  causes  this  perfect 


r 


u 


144  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

illusion.  It  does  not  seem  possible  that  you  are 
looking  at  a  plane  surface.  There  is  a  stratum  of 
air  before,  behind,  and  beside  these  figures.  You 
could  walk  on  that  floor  and  see  how  the  artist  is 
getting  on  with  the  portrait.  There  is  space  and 
light  in  this  picture,  as  in  any  room.  Every  object 
is  detached,  as  in  the  common  miracle  of  the  stereo- 
scope. If  art  consist  in  making  a  fleeting  moment 
immortal,  if  the  True  is  a  higher  ideal  than  the 
Beautiful,  then  it  wiU  be  hard  to  find  a  greater 
painting  than  this.  It  is  utterly  without  beauty ; 
its  tone  is  a  cold  olive  green-gray  ;  there  is  not  one 
redeeming  grace  or  charm  about  it  except  the  noble 
figure  of  Velazquez  himself,  —  yet  in  its  austere 
fidelity  to  truth  it  stands  incomparable  in  the  world. 
It  gained  Velazquez  his  greatest  triumph.  You  see 
on  his  breast  a  sprawling  red  cross,  painted  evident- 
ly by  an  unskilful  hand.  This  was  the  gracious 
answer  made  by  Philip  IV.  when  the  artist  asked 
him  if  anything  was  wanting  to  the  picture.  This 
decoration,  daubed  by  the  royal  hand,  was  the  ac- 
colade of  the  knighthood  of  Santiago,  —  an  honor 
beyond  the  dreams  of  an  artist  of  that  day.  It  may 
be  considered  the  highest  compliment  ever  paid  to 
a  painter,  except  the  one  paid  by  Courbet  to  him- 
self, when  he  refused  to  be  decorated  by  the  man 
of  December. 

Among  Velazquez's  most  admirable  studies  of  life 
is  his  picture  of  the  Borrachos.     A  group  of  rustic 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.  145 

roysterers  are  admitting  a  neophyte  into  the  drunken 
confrerie.  He  kneels  to  receive  a  crown  of  ivy  from 
the  hands  of  the  king  of  the  revel.  A  group  of 
older  tipplers  are  filling  their  cups,  or  eying  their 
brimming  glasses,  with  tipsy,  mock-serious  glances. 
There  has  never  been  a  chapter  written  which  so 
clearly  shows  the  drunkard's  nature  as  this  vulgar 
anacreontic.  A  thousand  men  have  painted  drunken 
frolics,  but  never  one  with  such  distinct  spiritual 
insight  as  this.  To  me  the  finest  product  of  Jor- 
daens'  genius  is  his  Bohnen  Konig  in  the  Belve- 
dere, but  there  you  see  only  the  incidents  of  the 
mad  revel ;  every  one  is  shouting  or  singing  or  weep- 
ing with  maudlin  glee  or  tears.  But  in  this  scene 
of  the  Borrachos  there  is  nothing  scenic  or  forced. 
These  topers  have  come  together  to  drink,  for  the 
love  of  the  wine,  —  the  fun  is  secondary.  This 
wonderful  reserve  of  Velazquez  is  clearly  seen  in 
his  conception  of  the  king  of  the  rouse.  He  is  a 
young  man,  with  a  heavy,  dull,  somewhat  serious 
face,  fat  rather  than  bloated,  rather  pale  than  flushed. 
He  is  naked  to  the  waist  to  show  the  plump  white 
arms  and  shoulders  and  the  satiny  skin  of  the 
voluptuary ;  one  of  those  men  whose  head  and 
whose  stomachs  are  too  loyal  ever  to  give  them 
Katzenjammer  or  remorse.  The  others  are  of  the 
commoner  type  of  haunters  of  wine-shops,  —  with 
red  eyes  and  coarse  hides  and  grizzled  matted  hair, 
—  but  every  man  of  them  inexorably  true,  and  a 
predestined  sot. 


146  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

We  must  break  away  from  Velazquez,  passing  by 
his  marvellous  portraits  of  kings  and  dwarfs,  saints 
and  poodles,  —  among  whom  there  is  a  dwarf  of  two 
centuries  ago,  who  is  too  like  Tom  Thumb  to  serve 
for  his  twin  brother,  —  and  a  portrait  of  ^sop,  which 
is  a  flash  of  intuition,  an  epitome  of  all  the  fables. 
Before  leaving  the  Spaniards  we  must  look  at  the 
most  pleasing  of  all  Eibera's  works,  —  the  Ladder- 
Dream  of  Jacob.  The  patriarch  lies  stretched  on 
the  open  plain  in  the  deep  sleep  of  the  weary.  To 
the  right  in  a  broad  shaft  of  cloudy  gold  the  angels 
are  ascending  and  descending.  The  picture  is  re- 
markable for  its  mingling  the  merits  of  Eibera's 
first  and  second  manner.  It  is  a  Caravaggio  in  its 
strength  and  breadth  of  light  and  shade,  and  a  Cor- 
reggio  in  its  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  refined  beauty 
of  coloring.  He  was  not  often  so  fortunate  in  his 
Parmese  efforts.  They  are  usually  marked  by  a 
timidity  and  an  attempt  at  prettiness  inconceivable 
in  the  haughty  and  impulsive  master  of  the  Nea- 
politan school. 
r  Of  the  three  great  Spaniards,  Eibera  is  the  least 
sympathetic.  He  often  displays  a  tumultuous  power 
and  energy  to  which  his  calmer  rivals  are  strangers. 
But  you  miss  in  him  that  steady  devotion  to  truth 
,  which  distinguishes  Velazquez,  and  that  spiritual 
I  lift  which  ennobles  Murillo.  The  difference,  I  con- 
ceive, lies  in  the  moral  character  of  the  three.  Ei- 
bera was  a  great  artist,  and  the  others  were  noble 


AN  HOUR   WITH   THE  PAINTERS.  147 

men.  Eibera  passed  a  youth  of  struggle  and  hun- 
ger and  toil  among  the  artists  of  Eome,  —  a  stranger 
and  penniless  in  the  magnificent  city,  —  picking  up . 
crusts  in  the  street  and  sketching  on  quiet  curb- 
stones, with  no  friend,  and  no  name  but  that  of 
Spagnoletto,  —  the  little  Spaniard.  Suddenly  ris- 
ing to  fame,  he  broke  loose  from  his  Eoman  asso- 
ciations and  fled  to  Naples,  where  he  soon  became  the 
wealthiest  and  the  most  arrogant  artist  of  his  time. 
He  held  continually  at  his  orders  a  faction  of  hravi 
who  drove  from  Naples,  with  threats  and  insults  and 
violence,  every  artist  of  eminence  who  dared  visit 
the  city.  Carracci  and  Guido  only  saved  their  lives 
by  flight,  and  the  blameless  and  gifted  Domenichino, 
it  is  said,  was  foully  murdered  by  his  order.  It  is 
not  to  such  a  heart  as  this  that  is  given  the  inefiable 
raptures  of  Murillo  or  the  positive  revelations  of 
Velazquez.  These  great  souls  were  above  cruelty  or 
jealousy.  Velazquez  never  knew  the  storms  of 
adversity.  Safely  anchored  in  the  royal  favor,  he 
passed  his  imeventful  life  in  the  calm  of  his  beloved 
work.  But  his  hand  and  home  were  always  open 
to  the  struggling  artists  of  Spain.  He  was  the 
benefactor  of  Alonzo  Cano ;  and  when  Murillo  came 
up  to  Madrid,  weary  and  footsore  with  his  long 
tramp  from  Andalusia,  sustained  by  an  innate  con- 
sciousness of  power,  all  on  flre  with  a  picture  of 
Van  Dyck  he  had  seen  in  Seville,  the  rich  and 
honored  painter  of  the  court  received  with  generous 


148  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

kindness  the  shabby  young  wanderer,  clothed  him, 
and  taught  him,  and  watched  with  noble  delight  the 
first  flights  of  the  young  eagle  whose  strong  wing 
was  so  soon  to  cleave  the  emp3n:'ean.  And  when 
Murillo  went  back  to  Seville  he  paid  his  debt  by 
doing  as  much  for  others.  These  magnanimous 
hearts  were  fit  company  for  the  saints  they  drew. 

We  have  lingered  so  long  with  the  native  artists 
we  shall  have  little  to  say  of  the  rest.  There  are 
ten  fine  Raphaels,  but  it  is  needless  to  speak  of 
them.  They  have  been  endlessly  reproduced.  Ra- 
phael is  known  and  judged  by  the  world.  After 
some  centuries  of  discussion  the  scorners  and  the 
^''^itics  are  dumb.  AU  men  have  learned  the  habit  of 
Albani,  who,  in  a  frivolous  and  unappreciative  age, 
always  uncovered  his  head  at  the  name  of  Raphael 
Sanzio.  We  look  at  his  precious  work  with  a 
mingled  feeling  of  gratitude  for  what  we  have,  and 
of  rebeUious  wonder  that  lives  like  his  and  Shel- 
ley's should  be  extinguished  in  their  glorious  dawn, 
while  kings  and  country  gentlemen  live  a  hundred 
years.  What  boundless  possibilities  of  bright 
achievement  these  two  divine  youths  owed  us  in 
the  forty  years  more  they  should  have  lived  !  Ra- 
phael's greatest  pictures  in  Madrid  are  the  Spasimo 
di  Sicilia,  and  the  Holy  Family,  called  La  Perla. 
The  former  has  a  singular  history.  It  was  painted 
for  a  convent  in  Palermo,  shipwrecked  on  the  way, 
and  thrown  ashore  on  the  gulf  of  Genoa.     It  was 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.      .  149 

again  sent  to  Sicily,  brought  to  Spain  by  the  Vice- 
roy of  Naples,  stolen  by  Napoleon,  and  in  Paris  was 
subjected  to  a  brilliantly  successful  operation  for 
transferring  the  layer  of  paint  from  the  worm-eaten 
wood  to  canvas.  It  came  back  to  Spain  with  other 
stolen  goods  from  the  Louvre.  La  Perla  was 
bought  by  Philip  IV.  at  the  sale  of  Charles  I.'s  ef- 
fects after  his  decapitation.  Philip  was  fond  of 
Charles,  but  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
profit  by  his  death.  This  picture  was  the  richest 
of  the  booty.  It  is,  of  all  the  faces  of  the  Virgin 
extant,  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  and  one  of  the 
least  spiritual. 

There  is  another  fine  Madonna,  commonly  called 
La  Virgen  del  Pez,  from  a  fish  which  young  Tobit 
holds  in  his  hand.  It  is  rather  tawny  in  color,  as 
if  it  had  been  painted  on  a  pine  board  and  the  wood 
had  asserted  itself  from  below.  It  is  a  charming 
picture,  with  aU  the  great  Eoman's  inevitable  per- 
fection of  design ;  but  it  is  incomprehensible  that 
critics,  Mr.  Viardot  among  them,  should  call  it  the 
first  in  rank  of  Eaphael's  Virgins  in  Glory.  There 
are  none  which  can  dispute  that  title  with  Our  Lady 
of  San  Sisto,  unearthly  and  supernatural  in  beauty 
and  majesty. 

The  school  of  Florence  is  represented  by  a  charm- 
ing Mona  Lisa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  almost  identi- 
cal with  that  of  the  Louvre ;  and  six  admirable 
pictures  of  Andrea  del  Sarto.     But  the  one  which 


150  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

most  attracts  and  holds  all  those  who  regard  the 
Faultless  Painter  with  sympathy,  and  who  admiring 
his  genius  regret  his  en;ors,  is  a  portrait  of  his  wife 
Lucrezia  Fede,  whose  name,  a  French  writer  has 
said,  is  a  double  epigram.  It  was  this  capricious 
and  wilful  beauty  who  made  poor  Andrea  break  his 
word  and  embezzle  the  money  King  Francis  had 
given  him  to  spend  for  works  of  art.  Yet  this  dan- 
gerous face  is  his  best  excuse,  —  the  face  of  a  man- 
snarer,  subtle  and  passionate  and  cruel  in  its 
blind  selfishness,  and  yet  so  beautiful  that  any  man 
might  yield  to  it  against  the  cry  of  his  own  warn- 
ing conscience.  Browning  must  have  seen  it  before 
he  wrote,  in  his  pathetic  poem,  — 

**  Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia,  that  are  mine  !  " 

Nowhere,  away  from  the  Adriatic,  is  the  Venetian 
school  so  richly  represented  as  in  Madrid.  Charles 
and  Philip  were  the  most  munificent  friends  and 
patrons  of  Titian,  and  the  Eoyal  Museum  counts 
among  its  treasures  in  consequence  the  enormous 
number  of  forty-three  pictures  by  the  wonderful 
centenarian.  Among  these  are  two  upon  which  he 
set  great  value,  —  a  Last  Supper,  which  has  unfor- 
tunately mouldered  to  ruin  in  the  humid  refectory  of 
the  Escorial,  equal  in  merit  and  destiny  with  that 
of  Leonardo ;  and  the  Gloria,  or  apotheosis  of  the 
Imperial  family,  which,  after  the  death  of  Charles, 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.      151 

was  brought  from  Yuste  to  the  Escorial,  and  thence 
came  to  swell  the  treasures  of  the  Museum.  It  is 
a  grand  and  masterly  work.  The  vigorous  genius 
of  Titian  has  grappled  with  the  essential  difficulties 
of  a  subject  that  trembles  on  the  balance  of  ridicu- 
lous and  sublime,  and  has  come  out  triumphant. 
The  Father  and  the  Son  sit  on  high.  The  Operating 
Spirit  hovers  above  them.  The  Virgin  in  robes  of 
azure  stands  in  the  blaze  of  the  Presence.  The 
celestial  army  is  ranged  around.  Below,  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  are  Charles  and  Philip  with 
their  wives,  on  their  knees,  with  white  cowls  and 
clasped  hands,  —  Charles  in  his  premature  age,  with 
worn  face  and  grizzled  beard;  and  Philip  in  his 
youth  of  unwholesome  fairness,  with  red  lips  and 
pink  eyelids,  such  as  Titian  painted  him  in  the 
Adonis.  The  foreground  is  filled  with  prophets  and 
saints  of  the  first  dignity,  and  a  kneeling  woman, 
whose  face  is  not  visible,  but  whose  attitude  and 
drapery  are  drawn  with  the  sinuous  and  undulating 
grace  of  that  hand  which  could  not  fail.  Every 
figure  is  turned  to  the  enthroned  Deity,  touched 
with  ineffable  light.  The  artist  has  painted  heaven, 
and  is  not  absurd.  In  that  age  of  substantial  faith 
such  achievements  were  possible. 

There  are  two  Venuses  by  Titian  very  like  that 
of  Dresden,  but  the  heads  have  not  the  same  dig- 
nity ;  and  a  Danse  which  is  a  replica  of  the  Vienna 
one.     His  Salome  bearinor  the  Head  of  John  the 


152  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Baptist  is  one  of  the  finest  impersonations  of  the 
pride  of  life  conceivable.  So  unapproachable  are 
the  soft  lights  and  tones  on  the  perfect  arms  and 
shoulders  of  the  full-bodied  maiden,  that  Tintoret 
one  day  exclaimed  in  despair  before  it, "  That  fellow 
paints  with  ground  flesh." 

This  gallery  possesses  one  of  the  last  works  of 
Titian,  —  the  Battle  of  Lepanto,  which  was  fought 
when  the  artist  was  ninety-four  years  of  age.  It 
is  a  courtly  allegory,  —  King  Philip  holds  his  little 
son  in  his  arms,  a  courier  angel  brings  the  news  of 
victory,  and  to  the  infant  a  palm-branch  and  the 
scroll  Major  a  tibi.  Outside  you  see  the  smoke  and 
flash  of  a  naval  battle,  and  a  malignant  and  tur- 
baned  Turk  lies  bound  on  the  floor.  It  would  seem 
incredible  that  this  enormous  canvas  should  have 
been  executed  at  such  an  age,  did  we  not  know  that 
when  the  pest  cut  the  mighty  master  off  in  his 
hundredth  year  he  was  busily  at  work  upon  a  De- 
scent from  the  Cross,  which  Palma  the  Elder  fin- 
ished on  his  knees  and  dedicated  to  God :  Quod  Ti- 
tianus  inchoatum  reliquit  Falma  reverenter  absolvit 
Deoqm  dicavit  opus. 

The  vast  representation  of  Titian  rather  injures 
Veronese  and  Tintoret.  Opposite  the  Gloria  of 
Yuste  hangs  the  sketch  of  that  stupendous  Paradise 
of  Tintoret,  which  we  see  in  the  Palace  of  the  Doges, 
—  the  biggest  picture  ever  painted  by  mortal, 
thirty  feet  high  and  seventy-four  long.     The  sketch 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       153 

was  secured  by  Velazquez  in  his  tour  through  Italy. 
The  most  charming  picture  of  Veronese  is  a  Venus 
and  Adonis,  which  is  finer  than  that  of  Titian,  —  a 
classic  and  most  exquisite  idyl  of  love  and  sleep, 
cool  shadow  and  golden-sifted  sunshine.  His  most 
considerable  work  in  the  gallery  is  a  Christ  teach- 
ing the  Doctors,  magnificent  in  arrangement,  severe- 
ly correct  in  drawing,  and  of  a  most  vivid  and 
dramatic  interest. 

We  pass  through  a  circular  vaulted  chamber  to 
reach  the  Flemish  rooms.  There  is  a  choice  though 
scanty  collection  of  the  German  and  French  schools. 
Albert  Durer  has  an  Adam  and  Eve,  and  a  priceless 
portrait  of  himself  as  perfectly  preserved  as  if  it 
were  painted  yesterday.  He  wears  a  curious  and 
picturesque  costume,  —  striped  black-and-white, — a 
graceful  tasselled  cap  of  the  same.  The  picture  is 
sufficiently  like  the  statue  at  Nuremberg ;  a  long 
South-German  face,  blue-eyed  and  thin,  fair-whis- 
kered, with  that  expression  of  quiet  confidence  you 
would  expect  in  the  man  who  said  one  day,  with 
admirable  candor,  when  people  were  praising  a  pic- 
ture of  his,  "  It  could  not  be  better  done."  In  thisH 
circular  room  are  four  great  Claudes,  two  of  which,  ' 
Sunrise  and  Sunset,  otherwise  called  the  Em- 
barcation  of  Sta.  Paula,  and  Tobit  and  the  Angel, 
are  in  his  best  and  richest  manner.  It  is  incon- 
ceivable to  us,  who  graduate  men  by  a  high-school 
standard,  that  these  refined  and  most  elegant  works 


L 


154  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

could  have  been  produced  by  a  man  so  imperfectly 
p.ducated  as  Claude  Lorrain. 

There  remain  the  pictures  of  the  Dutch  and  the 
Flemings.  It  is  due  to  the  causes  we  have  men- 
tioned in  the  beginning  that  neither  in  Antwerp  nor 
[Dresden  nor  Paris  is  there  such  wealth  and  pro- 
fusion of  the  Netherlands  art  as  in  this  mountain- 
guarded  corner  of  Western  Europe.  I  shall  have 
but  a  word  to  say  of  these  three  vast  rooms,  for 
Rubens  and  Van  Dyck  and  Teniers  are  known  to 
every  one.  The  first  has  here  a  representation  so 
complete  that  if  Europe  were  sunk  by  a  cataclysm 
from  the  Baltic  to  the  Pyrenees  every  essential 
characteristic  of  the  great  Fleming  could  still  be 
studied  in  this  gallery.  With  the  exception  of  his 
Descent  from  the  Cross  in  the  Cathedral  at  An- 
twerp, painted  in  a  moment  of  full  inspiration  that 
never  comes  twice  in  a  life,  everything  he  has  done 
elsewhere  may  be  matched  in  Madrid.  His  largest 
picture  here  is  an  Adoration  of  the  Kings,  an  over- 
powering exhibition  of  wasteful  luxuriance  of  color 
and  fougue  of  composition.  To  the  left  the  Virgin 
stands  leaning  with  queenly  majesty  over  the  efful- 
gent Child.  From  this  point  the  light  flashes  out 
over  the  kneeling  magi,  the  gorgeously  robed  at- 
tendants, the  prodigality  of  velvet  and  jewels  and 
gold,  to  fade  into  the  lovely  clear-obscure  of  a  starry 
night  peopled  with  dim  camels  and  cattle.  On  the 
extreme  right  is  a  most  graceful  and  gallant  por- 


AN   HOUR  WITH   THE  PAINTERS.  155 

trait  of  the  artist  on  horseback.  We  have  another 
fine  self-portraiture  in  the  Garden  of  Love,  —  a  group 
of  lords  and  ladies  in  a  delicious  pleasance  where 
the  greatest  seigneur  is  Peter  Paul  Eubens  and  the 
finest  lady  is  Helen  Forman.  These  true  artists 
had  to  paint  for  money  so  many  ignoble  faces  that 
they  could  not  be  blamed  for  taking  their  revenge 
in  painting  sometimes  their  own  noble  heads.  Van 
Dyck  never  drew  a  profile  so  faultless  in  manly 
beauty  as  his  own  which  we  see  on  the  same  can- 
vas with  that  of  his  friend  the  Earl  of  Bristol. 
Look  at  the  two  faces  side  by  side,  and  say  whether 
God  or  the  king  can  make  the  better  nobleman. 

Among  those  mythological  subjects  in  which 
Eubens  delighted,  the  best  here  are  his  Perseus 
and  Andromeda,  where  the  young  hero  comes 
gloriously  in  a  brand-new  suit  of  Milanese  armor, 
while  the  lovely  princess,  in  a  costume  that  never 
grows  old-fashioned,  consisting  of  sunsliine  and 
golden  hair,  awaits  him  and  deliverance  in  beauti- 
ful resignation;  a  Judgment  of  Paris,  the  Three 
Graces,  —  both  prodigies  of  his  strawberries-and- 
cream  color;  and  a  curious  suckling  of  Hercules, 
which  is  the  prototype  or  adumbration  of  the 
ecstatic  vision  of  St.  Bernard.  He  has  also  a  copy 
of  Titian's  Adam  and  Eve,  in  an  out-of-the-way 
place  down  stairs,  which  should  be  hung  beside  the 
original,  to  show  the  difference  of  handling  of  the 
two  master  colorists. 


156  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Especially  happy  is  this  Museum  in  its  Van 
Dycks.  Besides  those  incomparable  portraits  of 
Lady  Oxford,  of  Liberti  the  Organist  of  Antwerp, 
and  others  better  than  the  best  of  any  other  man, 
there  are  a  few  large  and  elaborate  compositions 
such  as  I  have  never  seen  elsewhere.  The  princi- 
pal one  is  the  Capture  of  Christ  by  night  in  the 
Gfirden  of  Gethsemane,  which  has  all  the  strength 
of  Rubens,  with  a  more  refined  study  of  attitudes 
and  a  greater  delicacy  of  tone  and  touch.  Another 
is  the  Crowning  with  Thorns,  —  although  of  less 
dimensions,  of  profound  significance  in  expression, 
and  a  flowing  and  marrowy  softness  of  execution. 
You  cannot  survey  the  work  of  Van  Dyck  in  this 
collection,  so  full  of  deep  suggestion,  showing  an 
intellect  so  vivid  and  so  refined,  a  mastery  of  pro- 
cesses so  thorough  and  so  intelligent,  without  the 
old  wonder  of  what  he  would  have  done  in  that 
ripe  age  when  Titian  and  Murillo  and  Shakespeare 
wrought  their  best  and  fullest,  and  the  old  regret  for 
the  dead,  —  as  Edgar  Poe  sings,  the  doubly  dead  in 
that  they  died  so  young.  We  are  tempted  to  lift  the 
veil  that  hides  the  unknown,  at  least  with  the  fur- 
tive hand  of  conjecture ;  to  imagiae  a  field  of  un- 
quenched  activity  where  the  early  dead,  free  from 
the  clogs  and  trammels  of  the  lower  world,  may 
follow  out  the  impulses  of  their  diviner  nature,  — 
where  Andrea  has  no  wife,  and  Raphael  and  Van 
Dyck  no  disease,  —  where  Keats  and  Shelley  have  all 


AN  HOUR  WITH  THE  PAINTERS.       157 

eternity  for  their  lofty  rhyme, — where  Ellsworth  and 
Koerner  and  the  Lowell  boys  can  turn  their  alert 
and  athletic  intelligence  to  something  better  than 
war. 


158  CASTILIAN  DAld. 


A  CASTLE  m  THE  AIR. 


?^ 


I  HAVE  sometimes  thought  that  a  symptom  of 
the  decay  of  true  kinghood  in  modern  times  is  the 
love  of  monarchs  for  solitude.  In  the  early  days 
when  monarchy  was  a  real  power  to  answer  a  real 
want,  the  king  had  no  need  to  hide  himself.  He 
was  the  strongest,  the  most  knowing,  the  most  can- 
ning. He  moved  among  men  their  acknowledged 
chief.  He  guided  and  controlled  them.  He  never 
lost  his  dignity  by  daily  use.  He  could  steal 
a  horse  like  Diomede,  he  could  mend  his  own 
breeches  like  Dagobert,  and  never  tarnish  the 
lustre  of  the  crown  by  it.  But  in  later  times  the 
throne  has  become  an  anachronism.  The  wearer 
of  a  crown  has  done  nothing  to  gain  it  but  give 
himself  the  trouble  to  be  born.  He  has  no  claim 
to  the  reverence  or  respect  of  men.  Yet  he  insists 
upon  it,  and  receives  some  show  of  it.  His  life  is 
mainly  passed  in  keeping  up  this  battle  for  a  lost 
dignity  and  worship.  He  is  given  up  to  shams  and 
ceremonies. 

To  a  Hfe  like  this  there  is  something  embarrassing 
in  the  movement  and  activity  of  a  great  city.  The 
king  cannot  join  in  it  without  a  loss  of  prestige. 


A   CASTLE  IN   THE   AIR.  .  159 

Being  outside  of  it,  he  is  vexed  and  humiliated  by- 
it.    The  empty  forms  become  nauseous  in  the  midst 
of  this  honest  and  wholesome   reality  of  out-of-    , 
doors.  —^I^ 

Hence  the  necessity  of  these  quiet  retreats 
in  the  forests,  in  the  water-guarded  islands,  in 
the  cloud-girdled  mountains.  Here  the  world  is 
not  seen  or  heard.  Here  the  king  may  live  with 
such  approach  to  nature  as  his  false  and  deformed 
education  will  allow.  He  is  surrounded  by  nothing 
but  the  world  of  servants  and  courtiers,  and  it 
requires  little  effort  of  the  imagination  to  consider 
himself  chief  and  lord. 

It  was  this  spirit  which  in  the  decaying  ripeness 
of  the  Bourbon  dynasty  drove  the  Louis  from  Paris 
to  Versailles  and  from  Versailles  to  Marly.  Mil- 
lions were  wasted  to  build  the  vast  monument  of 
royal  fatuity,  and  when  it  was  done  the  Grand 
Monarque  found  it  necessaiy  to  fly  from  time  to 
time  to  the  sham  solitude  and  mock  retirement  he 
had  built  an  hour  away. 

When  Philip  V.  came  down  from  France  to  his 
splendid  exile  on  the  throne  of  Spain,  he  soon 
wearied  of  the  interminable  ceremonies  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  court,  and  finding  one  day,  while  hunting,  a 
pleasant  farm  on  the  tenitory  of  the  Segovian 
monks,  flourishing  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  Guadari'ama 
Mountains,  he  bought  it,  and  reared  the  Palace  of 
La  Granja.     It  is  only  kings  who  can  build'  their 


160  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

castles  in  the  air  of  palpable  stones  and  mortar. 
This  lordly  pleasure-house  stands  four  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea  level.  On  this  commanding 
height,  in  this  savage  Alpine  loneliness,  in  the 
midst  of  a  scenery  once  wildly  beautiful,  but  now 
shorn  gud  shaven  into  a  smug  likeness  of  a  French 
garden,  Philip  passed  aU  the  later  years  of  his 
gloomy  and  inglorious  life. 

It  has  been  ever  since  a  most  tempting  summer- 
house  to  all  the  Bourbons.  When  the  sun  is  calcin- 
ing the  plains  of  Castile,  and  the  streets  of  Madrid 
are  white  with  the  hot  light  of  midsummer,  this 
palace  in  the  clouds  is  as  cool  and  shadowy  as 
spring  twilights.  And  besides,  as  all  public  busi- 
ness is  transacted  in  Madrid,  and  La  Granja  is  a 
day's  journey  away,  it  is  too  much  trouble  to  send 
a  courier  every  day  for  the  royal  signature,  —  or, 
rather,  rubric,  for  royalty  in  Spain  is  above  hand- 
writing, and  gives  its  majestic  approval  with  a 
flourish  of  the  pen,  —  so  that  everything  waits  a 
week  or  so,  and  much  business  goes  finally  un- 
done ;  and  this  is  the  highest  triumph  of  Spanish 
industry  and  skill. 

We  had  some  formal  business  with  the  court  of  the 
Kegent,  and  were  not  sorry  to  learn  that  his  High- 
ness would  not  return  to  the  capital  for  some  weeks, 
and  that  consequently,  following  the  precedent  of 
a  certain  prophet,  we  must  go  to  the  mountain. 

We  found  at  the  Estacion  del  Norte  the  state 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  161 

railway  carriage  of  her  late  Majesty,  —  a  briUiant 
creation  of  yellow  satin  and  profuse  gilding,  a 
boudoir  on  wheels,  —  not  too  full  of  a  distinguished 
company.  Some  of  the  leading  men  of  New  Spain, 
one  or  two  ministers,  were  there,  and  we  passed  a 
pleasant  two  hours  on  the  road  in  that  most  seduc- 
tive of  all  human  occupations,  —  talking  politics. 

It  is  remarkable  that  whenever  a  nation  is  re- 
modelling its  internal  structure,  the  subject  most 
generally  discussed  is  the  constitutional  system  of 
the  United  States.  The  republicans  usually  adopt 
it  solid.     The  monarchists  study  it  with  a  jealous 

interest.     I  fell  into  conversation  with  Senor , 

one  of  the  best  minds  in  Spain,  an  enlightened 
though  conservative  statesman.  He  said :  "  It  is 
hard  for  Europe  to  adopt  a  settled  belief  about  you. 
America  is  a  land  of  wonders,  of  contradictions. 
One  party  calls  your  system  freedom,  another 
anarchy.  In  all  legislative  assemblies  of  Europe, 
republicans  and  absolutists  alike  draw  arguments 
from  America.  But  what  cannot  be  denied  are 
the  effects,  the  results.  These  are  evident,  some- 
thing vast  and  grandiose,  a  life  and  movement 
to  which  the  Old  World  is  stranger."  He  after- 
wards referred  with  great  interest  to  the  imaginary 
imperialist  movement  in  America,  and  raised  his 
eyebrows  in  polite  incredulity  when  I  assured  him 
there  was  as  much  danger  of  Spain  becoming  Mo- 
hammedan as  of  America  becoming  imperialist. 


162  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

We  stopped  at  the  little  station  of  Villalba,  in 
the  midst  of  the  wide  brown  table-land  that 
stretches  from  Madrid  to  the  Escorial.  At  Villalba 
we  found  the  inevitable  swarm  of  beggars,  who  al- 
ways know  by  the  sure  instinct  of  wretchedness 
where  a  harvest  of  cuartos  is  to  be  achieved.  I 
liave  often  passed  Villalba  and  have  seen  nothing 
but  the  station-master  and  the  water-vender.  But 
to-day,  because  there  were  a  half-dozen  Excellencies 
on  the  train,  the  entire  mendicant  force  of  the  dis- 
trict was  on  parade.  They  could  not  have  known 
these  gentlemen  were  coming;  they  must  have 
scented  pennies  in  the  air. 

Awaiting  us  at  the  rear  of  the  station  were  three 
enormous  lumbering  diligences,  each  furnished  with 
nine  superb  mules,  —  four  pairs  and  a  leader.  They 
were  loaded  with  gaudy  trappings,  and  their  shiny 
coats,  and  backs  shorn  into  graceful  arabesques, 
showed  that  they  did  not  belong  to  the  working 
classes,  but  enjoyed  the  gentlemanly  leisure  of 
ofB-cial  station.  The  drivers  wore  a  smart  postilion 
uniform  and  the  royal  crown  on  their  caps. 

We  threw  some  handfuls  of  copper  and  bronze 
among  the  picturesque  mendicants.  They  gathered 
them  up  with  grave..£astilian  decorum,  and  said, 
"God  will  repay  your  Graces."  The  postilions 
cracked  their  whips,  the  mules  shook  their  bells 
gayly,  the  heavy  wagons  started  off  at  a  full  gallop, 
and  the  beggars  said,  "May  your  Graces  go  with 
God!" 


A   CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  163 

It  was  the  end  of  July,  and  the  sky  was  blue 
and  cloudless.  The  fine,  soft  light  of  the  afternoon 
was  falling  on  the  tawny  slopes  and  the  close-reaped 
fields.  The  harvest  was  over.  In  the  fields  on 
either  side  they  were  threshing  their  grain,  not  as 
in  the  outside  world,  with  the  whirring  of  loud  and 
swift  machinery,  nor  even  with  the  active  and 
lively  swinging  of  flails ;  but  in  the  open  air, 
under  the  warm  sky,  the  cattle  were  lazily  tread- 
ing out  the  corn  on  the  bare  ground,  to  be  win- 
nowed by  the  wandering  wind.  No  change  from 
the  time  of  Solomon.  Through  an  infinity  of  ages, 
ever  since  com  and  cattle  were,  the  Iberian  far- 
mer in  this  very  spot  had  driven  his  beasts  over 
his  crop,  and  never  dreamed  of  a  better  way  of 
doing  the  work. 

Not  only  does  the  Spaniard  not  seek  for  improve- 
ments, he  utterly  despises  and  rejects  them.  The 
poorer  classes  especially,  who  would  find  an  enor- 
mous advantage  in  increased  production,  lightening 
their  hard  lot  by  a  greater  plenty  of  the  means  of 
life,  regard  every  introduction  of  improved  ma- 
chinery as  a  blow  at  the  rights  of  labor.  When 
many  years  ago  a  Dutch  vintner  went  to  Valde- 
pefias  and  so  greatly  improved  the  manufacture  of 
that  excellent  but  ill-made  wine  that  its  price 
immediately  rose  in  the  Madrid  market,  he  was 
mobbed  and  plundered  by  his  ignorant  neighbors, 
because,  as  they  said,  he  was  laboring  to  make  wine 


164  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

dearer.  In  every  attempt  which  has  been  made  to 
manufacture  improved  machinery  in  Spain,  the 
greatest  care  has  to  be  taken  to  prevent  the  work- 
men from  maliciously  damaging  the  works,  which 
they  imagine  are  to  take  the  bread  from  the  mouths 
of  their  children. 

So  strong  is  this  feeling  in  every  department 
of  national  life,  that  the  Mayoral  who  drove  our 
spanking  nine-in-hand  received  with  very  ill  humor 
our  suggestion  that  the  time  could  be  greatly  short- 
ened by  a  Fell  railroad  over  the  hills  to  La  Granja. 
"  What  would  become  of  nosotros  ?  "  he  asked.  And 
it  really  would  seem  a  pity  to  annihilate  so  much 
picturesqueness  and  color  at  the  bidding  of  mere 
utility.  A  gayly  embroidered  Andalusian  jacket, 
bright  scarlet  silk  waistcoat,  —  a  rich  wide  belt,  into 
which  his  long  knife,  the  Navaja,  was  jauntily  thrust, 
—  buckskin  breeches,  with  Valentian  stockings, 
which,  as  they  are  open  at  the  bottom,  have  been  aptly 
likened  to  a  Spaniard's  purse,  —  and  shoes  made  of 
Murcian  matting,  composed  his  natty  outfit.  By 
his  side  on  the  box  sat  the  Zagal,  his  assistant, 
whose  especial  function  seemed  to  be  to  swear  at 
the  cattle.  I  have  heard  some  eloquent  impreca- 
tion in  my  day.  "Our  army  swore  terribly"  at 
Hilton  Head.  The  objuration  of  the  boatmen  of 
the  Mississippi  is  very  vigorous  and  racy.  But  I 
have  never  assisted  at  a  session  of  profanity  so 
loud,  so  energetic,  so  original  as  that  with  which 


A   CASTLE  IN   THE   AIR.  165 

this  Castilian  postilion  regaled  us.  The  wonderful 
consistency  and  perseverance  with  which  the  rSle 
was  sustained  was  worthy  of  a  much  better  cause. 

He  began  by  yelling  in  a  coarse,  strident  voice, 
''Arre!  arre'"  (Get  upi)  with  a  vicious  emphasis 
on  the  final  syllable.  This  is  one  oi  the  Moorish 
words  that  have  remained  fixed  like  fossils  in  the 
language  of  the  conquerors.  Its  constant  use  in  the 
mouths  of  muleteers  has  given  them  the  name  of 
arrieros.  This  general  admonition  being  addressed 
to  the  team  at  large,  the  Zagal  descended  to  details, 
and  proceeded  to  vilipend  the  galloping  beasts 
separately,  beginning  with  the  leader.  He  in- 
formed him,  still  in  this  wild,  jerking  scream,  that 
he  was  a  dog,  that  his  mother's  character  was  far 
from  that  of  Caesar's  wife,  and  that  if  more  speed 
was  not  exhibited  on  this  down  grade,  he  would  be 
forced  to  resort  to  extreme  measures.  At  the  men- 
tion of  a  whip,  the  tall  male  mule  who  led  the  team 
dashed  gallantly  off,  and  the  diligence  was  soon  en- 
veloped in  a  cloud  of  dust.  This  seemed  to  excite 
our  gay  charioteer  to  the  highest  degree.  He  screamed 
lustily  at  his  mules,  addressing  each  personally  by  its 
name.  "  Andaluza,  arr^  !  Thou  of  Arragon,  go  ! 
Beware  the  scourge,  Manchega ! "  and  every  animal 
acknowledged  the  special  attention  by  shaking  its 
ears  and  bells  and  whisking  its  shaven  tail,  as  the 
diligence  rolled  furiously  over  the  dull  drab  plain, 

For  three  hours  the  iron  lungs  of  the  muleteer 


166  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

knew  no  rest  or  pause.  Several  times  in  the  jour- 
ney we  stopped  at  a  post  station  to  change  oui 
cattle,  but  the  same  brazen  throat  sufficed  for  all 
the  threatening  and  encouragement  that  kept  them 
at  the  top  of  their  speed.  Before  we  arrived  at 
our  journey's  end,  however,  he  was  hoarse  as  a 
raven,  and  kept  one  hand  pressed  to  his  jaw  to 
reinforce  the  exhausted  muscles  of  speech. 

When  the  wide  and  dusty  plain  was  passed,  we 
began  by  a  slow  and  winding  ascent  the  passage  of 
the  Guadarrama.  The  road  is  an  excellent  one,  and 
although  so  seldom  used,  —  a  few  months  only  in 
the  year,  —  it  is  kept  in  the  most  perfect  repair.  It 
is  exclusively  a  summer  road,  being  in  the  winter 
impassable  with  snow.  It  affords  at  every  turn  the 
most  charming  compositions  of  mountain  and  wooded 
vaUey.  At  intervals  we  passed  a  mounted  Guardia 
Civil,  who  sat  as  motionless  in  his  saddle  as  an 
equestrian  statue,  and  saluted  as  the  coaches  rattled 
by.  And  once  or  twice  in  a  quiet  nook  by  the 
roadside  we  came  upon  the  lonely  cross  that  marked 
the  spot  where  a  man  had  been  murdered. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  we  arrived  at  the 
summit  of  the  pass.  We  halted  to  ask  for  a  glass 
of  water  at  the  hut  of  a  gray-haired  woman  on  the 
mountain-top.  It  was  given  and  received  as  al- 
ways in  this  pious  country,  in  the  name  of  God. 
As  we  descended,  the  mules  seemed  to  have  gained 
new  vigor  from  the  prospect  of  an  easy  stretch  of 


A   CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  167 

facilis  descensus,  and  the  Zagal  employed  what 
was  left  of  his  voice  in  provoking  them  to  speed 
by  insulting  remarks  upon  their  lineage.  The 
quick  twilight  fell  as  we  entered  a  vast  forest  of 
pines  that  clothed  the  mountain  side.  The  enor- 
mous trees  looked  in  the  dim  evening  light  like  the 
forms  of  tlie  Anakim,  maimed  with  lightning  but 
still  defying  heaven.  Years  of  battle  with  the 
mountain  winds  had  twisted  them  into  every  con- 
ceivable shape  of  writhing  and  distorted  deformity. 
I  never  saw  trees  that  so  nearly  conveyed  the  idea 
of  being  the  visible  prison  of  tortured  Dryads. 
Their  trunks,  white  and  glistening  with  oozing 
resin,  added  to  the  ghostly  impression  they  created 
in  the  uncertain  and  failing  light. 

We  reached  the  valley  and  rattled  by  a  sleepy 
village,  where  we  were  greeted  by  a  chorus  of  out- 
raged curs  whose  beauty-sleep  we  had  disturbed, 
and  then  began  the  slow  ascent  of  the  hill  where 
St.  Ildefonso  stands.  We  had  not  gone  far  when 
we  heard  a  pattering  of  hoofs  and  a  ringing  of 
sabres  coming  down  the  road  to  meet  us.  The 
diligence  stopped,  and  the  Introducer  of  Ambassa- 
dors jumped  to  the  ground  and  announced,  ''El 
Regente  del  Eeino  ! "  It  was  the  Regent,  the 
courteous  and  amiable  Marshal  Serrano,  who  had 
ridden  out  from  the  palace  to  welcome  his  guests, 
and  who,  after  hasty  salutations,  galloped  back  to 
La  Granja,  where  we  soon  arrived. 


168  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

We  were  assigned  the  apartments  usually  given 
to  the  Papal  Nuncio,  and  slept  with  an  episcopal 
peace  of  mind.  In  the  morning,  as  we  were  walk- 
ing about  the  gardens,  we  saw  looking  from  the 
palace  window  one  of  the  most  accomplished  gen- 
tlemen and  diplomatists  of  the  new  regime.  He 
descended  and  did  the  honors  of  the  place.  The 
system  of  gardens  and  fountains  is  enormous.  It 
is  evidently  modelled  upon  Versailles,  but  the  copy 
is  in  many  respects  finer  than  the  original.  The 
peculiarity  of  the  site,  while  offering  great  difficul- 
ties, at  the  same  time  enhances  the  triumph  of 
success.  This  is  a  garden  taught  to  bloom  upon 
a  barren  mountain-side.  The  earth  in  which  these 
trees  are  planted  was  brought  from  those  dim 
plains  in  the  distance  on  the  backs  of  men  and 
mules.  The  pipes  that  supply  these  innumerable 
fountains  were  laid  on  the  bare  rocks  and  the  soil 
was  thrown  over  them.  Every  tree  was  guarded 
and  watched  like  a  baby.  There  was  probably 
never  a  garden  that  grew  under  such  circumstances, 
—  but  the  result  is  superb.  The  fountains  are  fed 
by  a  vast  reservoir  in  the  mountain,  and  the  water 
they  throw  into  the  bright  air  is  as  clear  as  morning 
dew.  Every  alley  and  avenue  is  a  vista  that  ends 
in  a  vast  picture  of  shaggy  hills  or  far-off  plains,  — 
while  behind  the  royal  gardens  towers  the  lordly 
peak  of  the  Penalara,  thrust  eight  thousand  feet 
into  the  thin  blue  ether. 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIK.  169 

The  palace  has  its  share  of  history.  It  witnessed 
the  abdication  of  the  uxorious  bigot  Philip  V.  in 
1724,  and  his  resumption  of  the  crown  the  next 
year  at  the  instance  of  his  proud  and  turbulent 
Parmesan  wife.  His  bones  rest  in  the  church  here, 
as  he  hated  the  Austrian  line  too  intensely  to  share 
with  them  the  gorgeous  crypt  of  the  Escorial.  His 
wife,  Elizabeth  Farnese,  lies  under  the  same  grave- 
stone with  him,  as  if  unwilling  to  forego  even  in 
death  that  tremendous  influence  which  her  vigorous 
vitality  had  always  exercised  over  his  wavering  and 
sensual  nature.  "Das  Ewig-Weibliche *'  masters 
and  guides  him  still. 

This  retreat  in  the  autumn  of  1832  was  the 
scene  of  a  prodigious  exhibition  of  courage  and 
energy  on  the  part  of  another  Italian  woman,  Dofia 
Louisa  Carlota  de  Borbon.  Ferdinand  VII.,  his 
mind  weakened  by  illness,  and  influenced  by  his 
ministers,  had  proclaimed  his  brother  Don  Carlos 
heir  to  the  throne,  to  the  exclusion  of  his  own  in- 
fant daughter.  His  wife.  Queen  Christine,  broken 
down  by  the  long  conflict,  had  given  way  in  despair. 
But  her  sister.  Dona  Louisa  Carlota,  heard  of  the 
news  in  the  South  of  Spain,  and,  leaving  her  babies 
at  Cadiz  (two  little  urchins,  one  of  whom  was  to  be 
King  Consort,  and  the  other  was  to  fall  by  his 
cousin  Montpensier's  hand  in  the  field  of  Cara- 
banchel),  she  posted  without  a  moment's  pause  for 
rest  or  sleep  over  mountains  and  plains  from  the 
8 


170  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

sea  to  La  Granja.  She  fought  with  the  lackeys 
and  the  ministers  twenty-four  hours  before  she 
could  see  her  sister  the  Queen.  Having  breathed 
into  Christine  her  own  invincible  spirit,  they  suc- 
ceeded, after  endless  pains,  in  reaching  the  King. 
Obstinate  as  the  weak  often  are,  he  refused  at  first 
to  listen  to  them ;  but  by  their  womanly  wiles,  their 
Italian  policy,  their  magnetic  force,  they  at  last 
brought  him  to  revoke  his  decree  in  favor  of  Don 
Carlos  and  to  recognize  the  right  of  his  daughters  to 
the  crown.  Then,  terrible  in  her  triumph.  Dona 
Louisa  Carlota  sent  for  the  Minister  Calomarde, 
overwhelmed  him  with  the  coarsest  and  most  furi- 
ous abuse,  and,  unable  to  confine  her  victorious  rage 
and  hate  to  words  alone,  she  slapped  the  astounded 
minister  in  the  face.  Calomarde,  trembling  with 
rage,  bowed  and  said,  "  A  white  hand  cannot  of- 
fend." 

There  is  nothing  stronger  than  a  woman's  weak- 
ness, or  weaker  than  a  woman's  strength. 

A  few  years  later,  when  Ferdinand  was  in  his 
grave,  and  the  baby  Isabel  reigned  under  the  re- 
gency of  Christine,  a  movement  in  favor  of  the 
Constitution  of  1812  burst  out,  where  revolutions 
generally  do,  in  the  South,  and  spread  rapidly  over 
the  contiguous  provinces.  The  infection  gained  the 
troops  of  the  royal  guard  at  La  Granja,  and  they 
surrounded  the  palace  bawling  for  the  Constitution 
The  Eegentess,  with  a  proud  reliance    vipon  her 


A   CASTLE  IN   THE  AIR.  171 

own  power,  ordered  them  to  send  a  deputation  to 
her  apartment.  A  dozen  of  the  mutineers  came  in, 
and  demanded  the  Constitution. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  the  Queen. 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  cudgelled  their 
brains.     They  had  never  thought  of  that  before. 

"  Caramba  ! "  said  they.  "  We  don't  know.  They 
say  it  is  a  good  thing,  and  will  raise  our  pay  and 
make  salt  cheaper." 

Their  political  economy  was  somewhat  flimsy, 
but  they  had  the  bayonets,  and  the  Queen  was 
compelled  to  give  way  and  proclaim  the  Constitu- 
tion. 

I  must  add  one  trifling  reminiscence  more  of  La 
Granja,  which  has  also  its  little  moral.  A  friend  of 
mine,  a  Colonel  of  Engineers,  in  the  summer  before 
the  Eevolution,  was  standing  before  the  palace  with 
some  officers,  when  a  mean-looking  cur  ran  past. 

"  What  an  ugly  dog  ! "  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Hush ! "  replied  another,  with  an  awe-struck 
face.  "  That  is  the  dog  of  his  Eoyal  Highness  the 
Prince  of  Asturias." 

The  Colonel  unfortunately  had  a  logical  mind, 
and  failed  to  see  that  ownership  had  any  bearing 
on  a  purely  aesthetic  questioui  He  defined  his 
position.  "  I  do  not  think  the  dog  is  ugly  because 
he  belongs  to  the  Prince.  I  only  mean  the  Prince 
has  an  ugly  dog." 

The  window  just  above  them  slammed,  and  an- 


172  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

other  officer  came  up  and  said  that  the  Adversary 
was  to  pay.  "  The  Queen  was  at  the  window  and 
heard  eveiy  word  you  said." 

An  hour  after  the  Colonel  received  an  order  from 
the  commandant  of  the  place,  revoking  his  leave 
of  absence  and  ordering  him  to  duty  in  Madrid.  It 
is  not  very  surprising  that  this  officer  was  at  the 
Bridge  of  Alcolea. 

At  noon  the  day  grew  dark  with  clouds,  and  the 
black  storm-wreath  came  down  over  the  mountains. 
A  terrific  fire  of  artillery  resounded  for  a  half-hour 
in  the  craggy  peaks  about  us,  and  a  driving  shower 
passed  over  palace  and  gardens.  Then  the  sun 
came  out  again,  the  pleasure-grounds  were  fresher 
and  greener  than  ever,  and  the  visitors  thronged  in 
the  court  of  the  palace  to  see  the  fountains  in  play. 
The  Eegent  led  the  way  on  foot.  The  General  fol- 
lowed in  a  pony  phaeton,  and  ministers,  adjutants, 
and  the  jDopulation  of  the  district  trooped  along  in 
a  party-colored  mass. 

It  was  a  good  afternoon's  work  to  visit  all  the 
fountains.  They  are  twenty-six  in  number,  strewn 
over  the  undulating  grounds.  People  who  visit 
Paris  usually  consider  a  day  of  Grandes  Eaux  at 
Versailles  the  last  word  of  this  species  of  costly 
trifling.  But  the  waters  at  Versailles  bear  no  com- 
parison with  those  of  La  Granja.  The  sense  is 
fatigued  and  bewildered  here  with  their  magnifi- 
cence and  infinite  variety.    The  vast  reservoii'  in 


A   CASTLE  IN  THE   AIE.  173 

the  bosom  of  the  mountain,  filled  with  the  purest 
water,  gives  a  possibility  of  more  superb  effects 
than  have  been  attained  anywhere  else  in  the  world. 
The  Fountain  of  the  Winds  is  one,  where  a  vast 
mass  of  water  springs  into  the  air  from  the  foot  of 
a  great  cavernous  rock  ;  there  is  a  succession  of  ex- 
quisite cascades  called  the  Eace-Course,  fiUed  with 
graceful  statuary ;  a  colossal  group  of  Apollo  slay- 
ing the  Python,  who  in  his  death  agony  bleeds  a 
torrent  of  water;  the  Basket  of  Flowers,  which 
throws  up  a  system  of  forty  jets ;  the  great  single 
jet  called  Fame,  which  leaps  one  hundred  and 
thirty  feet  into  the  air,  a  Niagara  reversed ;  and 
the  crowning  glory  of  the  garden,  the  Baths  of 
Diana,  an  immense  stage  scene  in  marble  and 
bronze,  crowded  with  nymphs  and  hunting  parties, 
wild  beasts  and  birds,  and  everywhere  the  wildest 
luxuriance  of  spouting  waters.  We  were  told  that 
it  was  one  of  the  royal  caprices  of  a  recent  tenant 
of  the  palace  to  emulate  her  chaste  prototype  of 
the  silver  bow  by  choosing  this  artistic  basin  for 
her  ablutions,  a  sufficient  number  of  civil  guards 
being  posted  to  prevent  the  approach  of  Castilian 
^ctaeons.  Ford  aptly  remarks  of  these  extravagant 
follies  :  "  The  yoke  of  building  kings  is  grievous,  and 
especially  when,'as  St.  Simon  said  of  Louis  XIV. 
and  his  Versailles,  *  II  se  plut  a  tyranniser  la 
nature.' " 

As  the  bilious  Philip  paused  before  this  mass  of 


174  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

sculptured  extravagance,  he  looked  at  it  a  moment 
with  evident  pleasure.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
bill,  and  whined,  "Thou  hast  amused  me  three 
minutes  and  hast  cost  me  three  millions." 

To  do  Philip  justice,  he  did  not  allow  the  bills 
to  trouble  him  much.  He  died  owing  forty-five 
million  piastres,  which  his  dutiful  son  refused  to 
pay.  When  you  deal  with  Bourbons,  it  is  well  to 
remember  the  Spanish  proverb,  "  A  sparrow  in  the 
hand  is  better  than  a  bustard  on  the  wing." 

We  wasted  an  hour  in  walking  through  the 
palace.  It  is,  like  all  palaces,  too  fine  and  dreary 
to  describe.  Miles  of  drawing-rooms  and  boudoirs, 
with  an  infinity  of  tapestry  and  gilt  chairs,  all  the 
apartments  haunted  by  the  demon  of  ennui.  All 
idea  of  comfort  is  sacrificed  to  costly  glitter  and 
flimsy  magnificence.  Some  fine  paintings  were 
pining  in  exile  on  the  desolate  walls.  They  looked 
homesick  for  the  Museum,  where  they  could  be 
seen  of  men. 

The  next  morning  we  drove  down  the  mountain 
and  over  the  rolling  plain  to  the  fine  old  city  of 
Segovia.  In  point  of  antiquity  and  historic  inter- 
est it  is  inferior  to  no  town  in  Spain.  It  has  lost 
its  ancient  importance  as  a  seat  of  government  and 
a  mart  of  commerce.  Its  population  is  now  not 
more  than  eleven  thousand.  Its  manufactures  have 
gone  to  decay.  Its  woollen  works,  which  once  em- 
ployed fourteen  thousand  persons  and  produced  an- 


A   CASTLE  IN   THE   AIR.  175 

nually  twenty-five  thousand  pieces  of  cloth,  now 
sustain  a  sickly  existence  and  turn  out  not  more 
than  two  hundred  pieces  yearly.  Its  mint,  which 
once  spread  over  Spain  a  Danaean  shower  of 
ounces  and  dollars,  is  now  reduced  to  the  humble 
office  of  striking  copper  cuartos.  More  than  two 
centuries  ago  this  decline  began.  Boisel,  who  was 
there  in  1669,  speaks  of  the  city  as  "  presque  de- 
sert et  fort  pauvre."  He  mentions  as  a  mark  of 
the  general  unthrift  that  the  day  he  arrived  there 
was  no  bread  in  town  until  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, "  and  no  one  was  astonished  at  it." 

Yet  even  in  its  poverty  and  rags  it  has  the  air  of 
a  town  that  has  seen  better  days.  Tradition  says 
it  was  founded  by  Hercules.  It  was  an  important 
city  of  the  Koman  Empire,  and  a  gi'eat  capital  in 
the  days  of  the  Arab  monarchy.  It  was  the  court 
of  the  star-gazing  King  Alonso  the  Wise.  Through 
a  dozen  centuries  it  was  the  flower  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Castile.  Each  succeeding  age  and  race 
beautified  and  embellished  it,  and  each,  departing, 
left  the  trace  of  its  passage  in  the  abiding  granite 
of  its  monuments.  The  Komans  left  the  glorious 
aqueduct,  that  work  of  demigods  who  scorned  to 
mention  it  in  their  histories ;  its  mediaeval  bishops 
bequeathed  to  later  times  their  ideas  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal architecture  ;  and  the  Arabs  the  science  of  forti- 
fication and  the  industrial  arts. 

Its  very  ruin  and   decay  makes   it   only  more 


176  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

precious  to  the  traveller.  There  are  here  none  ot 
the  modern  and  commonplace  evidences  of  life  and 
activity  that  shock  the  artistic  sense  in  other  towns. 
All  is  old,  moribund,  and  picturesque.  It  lies  here 
in  the  heart  of  the  Guadarramas,  lost  and  forgotten 
by  the  civilization  of  the  age,  muttering  in  its  se- 
nile dream  of  the  glories  of  an  older  world.  It  has 
not  vitality  enough  to  attract  a  railroad,  and  so  is 
only  reached  by  a  long  and  tiresome  journey  by 
diligence.  Its  solitude  is  rarely  intruded  upon  by 
the  impertinent  curious,  and  the  red  back  of  Mur- 
ray is  a  rare  apparition  in  its  winding  streets. 

Yet  those  who  come  are  richly  repaid.  One  does 
not  quickly  forget  the  impression  produced  by  the 
first  view  of  the  vast  aqueduct,  as  you  drive  into 
the  town  from  La  Granja.  It  comes  upon  you  in 
an  instant,  —  the  two  great  ranges  of  superimposed 
arches,  over  one  hundred  feet  high,  spanning  the 
ravine-like  suburb  from  the  outer  hiUs  to  the  Al- 
cazar. You  raise  your  eyes  from  the  market-place, 
with  its  dickering  crowd,  from  the  old  and  squalid 
houses  clustered  like  shot  rubbish  at  the  foot  of 
the  chasm,  to  this  grand  and  soaring  wonder  of 
utilitarian  architecture,  with  something  of  a  fancy 
that  it  was  never  made,  that  it  has  stood  there  since 
the  morning  of  the  world.  It  has  the  lightness  and 
the  strength,  the  absence  of  ornament  and  the 
essential  beauty,  the  vastness  and  the  perfection,  of 
a  work  of  nature. 


A  CASTLE  IN   THE   AIR.  177 

It  is  one  of  those  gigantic  works  of  Trajan,  so 
common  in  that  magnificent  age  that  Koman  au- 
thors do  not  allude  to  it.  It  was  built  to  bring  the 
cool  mountain  water  of  the  Sierra  Fonfria  a  distance 
of  nine  miles  through  the  hills,  the  gulches,  and  the 
pine  forests  of  Valsain,  and  over  the  open  plain  to 
the  thirsty  city  of  Segovia.  The  aqueduct  proper 
runs  from  the  old  tower  of  Caseron  three  thousand 
feet  to  the  reservoir  where  the  water  deposits  its 
sand  and  sediment,  and  thence  begins  the  series  of 
one  hundred  and  nineteen  arches,  which  traverse 
three  thousand  feet  more  and  pass  the  valley,  the 
arrabal,  and  reach  the  citadel.  It  is  composed  of 
great  blocks  of  granite,  so  perfectly  framed  and 
fitted  that  not  a  particle  of  mortar  or  cement  is 
employed  in  the  construction. 

The  wonder  of  the  work  is  not  so  much  in  its 
vastness  or  its  beauty  as  in  its  tremendous  solidity 
and  duration.  A  portion  of  it  had  been  cut  away 
by  barbarous  armies  during  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  in  the  reign  of  Isabella  the  Catholic  the  monk- 
architect  of  the  Parral,  Juan  Escovedo,  the  greatest 
builder  of  his  day  in  Spain,  repaired  it.  These  re- 
pairs have  themselves  twice  needed  repairing  since 
then.  Marshal  Ney,  when  he  came  to  this  portion 
of  the  monument,  exclaimed,  "Here  begins  the 
work  of  men's  hands." 

The  true  Segovian  would  hoot  at  you  if  you  as- 
signed any  mortal  paternity  to  the  aqueduct.     He 

8*  L 


178  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Galls  it  the  Devil's  Bridge,  and  tells  you  this  story. 
The  Evil  One  was  in  love  with  a  pretty  girl  of  the 
upper  town,  and  full  of  protestations  of  devotion. 
The  fair  Segovian  listened  to  him  one  evening, 
when  her  plump  arms  ached  with  the  work  of  bring- 
ing water  from  the  ravine,  and  promised  eyes  of 
favor  if  his  Infernal  Majesty  would  build  an  aque- 
duct to  her  door  before  morniag.  He  worked  all 
night,  like  the  Devil,  and  the  maiden,  opening  her 
black  eyes  at  sunrise,  saw  him  putting  the  last 
stone  in  the  last  arch,  as  the  first  ray  of  the  sun 
lighted  on  his  shining  tail.  The  Church,  we  think 
rery  unfairly,  decided  that  he  had  failed,  and  re- 
leased the  coquettish  contractor  from  her  promise  ; 
and  it  is  said  the  Devil  has  never  trusted  a  Sego- 
vian out  of  his  sight  again. 

The  bartizaned  keep  of  the  Moorish  Alcazar  is 
perched  on  the  western  promontory  of  the  city  that 
guards  the  meeting  of  the  streams  Eresma  and 
Clamores.  It  has  been  in  the  changes  of  the  warring 
times  a  palace,  a  fortress,  a  prison  (where  our  friend 
—  everybody's  friend  —  Gil  Bias  was  once  con- 
fined), and  of  late  years  a  college  of  artillery.  In 
one  of  its  rooms  Alonso  the  Wise  studied  the 
heavens  more  than  was  good  for  his  orthodoxy,  and 
from  one  of  its  windows  a  lady  of  the  court  once 
dropped  a  royal  baby,  of  the  bad  blood  of  Tras- 
tamara.  Henry  of  Trastamara  will  seem  more  real 
if  we  connect  him  with  fiction.     He  was  the  son  of 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  179 

"  La  Favorita,"  who  will  outlast  all  legitimate  prin- 
cesses, in  the  deathless  music  of  Donizetti.  ^^^ 

Driving  through  a  throng  of  beggars  that  en-  ] 
cumbered  the  carriage  wheels  as  grasshoppers  some- 
times do  the  locomotives  on  a  Western  railway,  we 
came  to  the  fine  Gothic  Cathedral,  built  by  Gil  de 
Ontanon,  father  and  son,  in  the  early  part  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  is  a  delight  to  the  eyes ;  the 
rich  harmonious  color  of  the  stone,  the  symmetry 
of  proportion,  the  profuse  opulence  and  grave  finish 
of  the  details.  It  was  built  in  that  happy  era  of 
architecture  when  a  builder  of  taste  and  culture 
had  all  the  past  of  Gothic  art  at  his  disposition, 
and  before  the  degrading  influence  of  the  Jesuits 
appeared  in  the  churches  of  Europe.  Within  the 
Cathedral  is  remarkably  airy  and  graceful  in  effect. 
A  most  judicious  use  has  been  made  of  the  exqui- 
site salmon-colored  marbles  of  the  country  in  the 
great  altar  and  the  pavement. 

We  were  met  by  civil  ecclesiastics  of  the  founda- 
tion and  shown  the  beauties  and  the  wonders  of  the 
place.  Among  much  that  is  worthless,  there  is  one 
very  impressive  Descent  from  the  Cross  by  Juan  de 
Juni,  of  which  that  excellent  Mr.  Madoz  says  "  it 
is  worthy  to  rank  with  the  best  masterpieces  of 
Kaphael  or  —  Mengs " ;  as  if  one  should  say  of  a 
poet  that  he  was  equal  to  Shakespeare  or  Southey. 

We  walked  through  the  cloisters  and  looked  at 
the  tombs.     A  flood  of  warm  light  poured  through 


180  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  graceful  arches  and  lit  up  the  trees  in  the  gar- 
den and  set  the  birds  to  singing,  and  made  these 
cloisters  pleasanter  to  remember  than  they  usually 
are.  Our  attendant  priest  told  us,  with  an  earnest 
credulity  that  was  very  touching,  the  story  of  Maria 
del  Salto,  Mary  of  the  Leap,  whose  history  was 
staring  at  us  from  the  waU.  She  was  a  Jewish  lady, 
whose  husband  had  doubts  of  her  discretion,  and  so 
threw  her  from  a  local  Tarpeian  rock.  As  she  fell 
she  invoked  the  Virgin,  and  came  down  easily,  sus- 
tained, as  you  see  in  the  picture,  by  her  faith  and 
her  petticoats. 

As  we  parted  from  the  good  fathers  and  entered 
our  carriages  at  the  door  of  the  church,  the  swarm 
of  mendicants  had  become  an  army.  The  word  had 
doilbtless  gone  through  the  city  of  the  outlandish 
men  who  had  gone  into  the  Cathedral  with  whole 
coats,  and  the  result  was  a  levee  en  masse  of  the 
needy.  Every  coin  that  was  thrown  to  them  but 
increased  the  clamor,  as  it  confirmed  them  in  their 
idea  of  the  boundless  wealth  and  munificence  of  the 
givers.  We  recalled  the  profound  thought  of  Emer- 
son, "  If  the  rich  were  only  as  rich  as  the  poor  think 

^    them!" 

I  /  At  last  we  drove  desperately  away  through  the 
ragged  and  screaming  throng.  We  passed  by  the 
former  home  of  the  Jeronomite  monks  of  the  Parral, 
which  was  once  called  an  earthly  paradise,  and  in 
later  years  has  been  a  pen  for  swine ;  past  crumbling 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  181 

convents  and  ruined  churches ;  past  the  charming 
Eomanesque  San  Millan,  girdled  with  its  round- 
arched  cloisters ;  the  granite  palace  of  his  Eeverence 
the  Bishop  of  Segovia,  and  the  elegant  tower  of  St. 
Esteban,  where  the  Eoman  is  dying  and  the  Gothic 
is  dawning ;  and  every  step  of  the  route  is  a  study 
and  a  joy  to  the  antiquarian. 

But  though  enriched  by  all  these  legacies  of  an 
immemorial  past,  there  seems  no  hope,  no  future  for 
Segovia.  It  is  as  dead  as  the  cities  of  the  Plain. 
Its  spindles  have  rusted  into  silence.  Its  gay  com- 
pany is  gone.  Its  streets  are  too  large  for  the  popula- 
tion, and  yet  they  swarm  with  beggars.  I  had  often 
heard  it  compared  in  outline  to  a  ship,  —  the  sunrise 
astern  and  the  prow  pointing  westward,  —  and  as  we 
drove  away  that  day  and  I  looked  back  to  the  re- 
ceding town,  it  seemed  to  me  like  a  grand  hulk  of 
some  richly  laden  gaUeon,  aground  on  the  rock  that 
holds  it,  alone,  abandoned  to  its  fate  among  the 
barren  billows  of  the  tumbling  ridges,  its  crew  tired 
out  with  struggling  and  apathetic  in  despair,  mocked 
by  the  finest  air  and  the  clearest  sunshine  that  ever 
shone,  and  gaziag  always  forward  to  the  new  world 
and  the  new  times  hidden  in  the  rosy  sunset,  which 
they  shall  never  see.  •  j  1 


182  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  VISIGOTHS. 

J  Emilio  Castelar  said  to  me  one  day,  "Toledo  is 
the  most  remarkable  city  in  Spain.  You  will  find 
there  three  strata  of  glories, —  Gothic,  Arab,  and 
Castilian,  —  and  an  upper  crust  of  beggars  and 
silence." 

I  went  there  in  the  pleasantest  time  of  the  year, 
the  first  days  of  June.  The  early  harvest  was  in 
progress,  and  the  sunny  road  ran  through  golden 
fields  which  were  enlivened  by  the  reapers  gather- 
ing in  their  grain  with  shining  sickles.  The  borders 
of  the  Tagus  were  so  cool  and  fresh  that  it  was  hard 
to  believe  one  was  in  the  arid  land  of  Castile.  From 
Madrid  to  Aranjuez  you  meet  the  usual  landscapes 
of  dim  hillocks  and  pale-blue  vegetation,  such  as  are 
only  seen  in  nature  in  Central  Spain,  and  only  seen 
in  art  on  the  matchless  canvas  of  Velazquez.  But 
from  the  time  you  cross  the  tawny  flood  of  the 
Tagus  just  north  of  Aranjuez,  the  valley  is  glad- 
dened by  its  waters  all  the  way  to  the  Primate  City. 
I  am  glad  I  am  not  writing  a  guide-book,  and  do 
not  feel  any  responsibility  resting  upon  me  of  ad- 
vising the  gentle  reader  to  stop  at  Aranjuez  or  to  go 
by  on  the  other  side.     There  is  a  most  amiable  and 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  183 

praiseworthy  class  of  travellers  who  feel  a  certain 
moral  necessity  impelling  them  to  visit  every  royal 
abode  within  their  reach.  They  always  see  precise- 
ly the  same  things,  —  some  thousand  of  gilt  chairs, 
some  faded  tapestry  and  marvellous  satin  upholstery, 
a  room  in  porcelain,  and  a  room  in  imitation  of  some 
other  room  somewhere  else,  and  a  picture  or  two  by 
that  worthy  and  tedious  young  man,  Kaphael  Mengs. 
I  knew  I  would  see  all  these  things  at  Aranjuez, 
and  so  contented  myself  with  admiring  its  pretty 
site,  its  stone-cornered  brick  fac^ade,  its  high- 
shouldered  French  roof,  and  its  general  air  of  the 
Place  Eoyale,  from  the  outside.  The  gardens  are 
very  pleasant,  and  lonely  enough  for  the  most 
philosophic  stroller.  A  clever  Spanish  writer  says 
df  them,  "They  are  sombre  as  the  thoughts  of 
Philip  II.,  mysterious  and  gallant  as  the  pleasures 
of  Philip  IV."  To  a  revolutionary  mind,  it  is  a 
certain  pleasure  to  remember  that  this  was  the 
scene  of  the  Smeute  that  drove  Charles  IV.  from 
his  throne,  and  the  Prince  of  Peace  from  his  queen's 
boudoir.  Ferdinand  VII.,  the  turbulent  and  restless 
Prince  of  Asturias,  reaped  the  immediate  profit  of 
his  father's  abdication ;  but  the  two  worthless  crea- 
tures soon  called  in  Napoleon  to  decide  the  squab- 
ble, which  he  did  in  his  leonine  way  by  taking  the 
crown  away  from  both  of  them  and  handing  it  over 
for  safe-keeping  to  his  lieutenant  brother  Joseph. 
Honor  among  thieves !  —  a  silly  proverb,  as  one 


184  CASTILUN  DAYS. 

readily  sees  if  he  falls  into  their  hands,  or  reads 
the  history  of  kings. 

If  Toledo  had  been  built,  by  some  caprice  of  en- 
lightened power,  especially  for  a  show  city,  it  could 
not  be  finer  in  effect.  In  detail,  it  is  one  vast  mu- 
seum. In  ensemble,  it  stands  majestic  on  its  hills, 
with  its  long  lines  of  palaces  and  convents  terraced 
around  the  rocky  slope,  and  on  the  height  the 
soaring  steeples  of  a  swarm  of  churches  piercing 
the  blue,  and  the  huge  cube  of  the  Alcazar  crown- 
ing the  topmost  crest,  and  domineering  the  scene. 
The  magnificent  zigzag  road  which  leads  up  the 
steep  hillside  from  the  bridge  of  Alcantara  gives 
an  indefinable  impression,  as  of  the  lordly  ramp  of 
some  fortress  of  impossible  extent. 

This  road  is  new,  and  in  perfect  condition.  But 
do  not  imagine  you  can  judge  the  city  by  the  ap- 
proaches. When  your  carriage  has  mounted  the 
hill  and  passed  the  evening  promenade  of  the  To- 
ledans,  the  quaint  triangular  Place,  —  I  had  nearly 
called  it  Square,  —  "  waking  laughter  in  iudolent  re- 
viewers," the  Zocodover,  you  are  lost  in  the  daedalian 
windings  of  the  true  streets  of  Toledo,  where  you 
can  touch  the  walls  on  either  side,  and  where  two 
carriages  could  no  more  pass  each  other  than  two 
locomotives  could  salute  and  go  by  on  the  same 
track.  This  interesting  experiment,  which  is  so 
common  in  our  favored  land,  could  never  be  tried 
in  Toledo,  as  I  believe  there  is  only  one  turn-out  in 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  185 

the  city,  a  minute  omnibus  with  striped  linen  hang- 
ings at  the  sides,  driven  by  a  young  Castilian  whose 
love  of  money  is  the  root  of  much  discussion  when 
you  pay  his  bill.  It  is  a  most  remarkable  establish- 
ment. The  horses  can  cheerfully  do  their  mile  in 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  but  they  make  more  row 
about  it  than  a  high-pressure  Mississippi  steamer ; 
and  the  crazy  little  trap  is  noisier  in  proportion  to 
its  size  than  anything  I  have  ever  seen,  except  per- 
haps an  Indiana  tree-toad.  If  you  make  an  ex- 
cursion outside  the  walls,  the  omnibus,  noise  and 
all,  is  inevitable,  let  it  come.  But  inside  the  city 
you  must  walk ;  the  slower  the  better,  for  every 
door  is  a  study. 

It  is  hard  to  conceive  that  this  was  once  a  great 
capital  with  a  population  of  two  hundred  thousand 
souls.  You  can  easily  walk  from  one  end  of  the 
city  to  the  other  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  and  the 
houses  that  remain  seem  comfortably  filled  by  eigh- 
teen thousand  inhabitants.  But  in  this  narrow 
space  once  swarmed  that  enormous  and  busy  mul- 
titude. The  city  was  walled  about  by  powerful 
stone  ramparts,  which  yet  stand  in  all  their  massy 
perfection.  So  there  could  have  been  no  suburbs. 
This  great  aggregation  of  humanity  lived  and  toiled 
on  the  crests  and  in  the  wrinkles  of  the  seven  hills 
we  see  to-day.  How  important  were  the  industries 
of  the  earlier  days  we  can  guess  from  the  single 
fact  that  John  of  Padilla,  when  he  rose  in  defence 


186  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

f  of  municipal  liberty  in  the  time  of  Charles  V.,  drew 
in  one  day  from  the  teeming  workshops  twenty 
thousand  fighting  men.  He  met  the  usual  fate  of 
all  Spanish  patriots,  shameful  and  cruel  death.  His 
palace  was  razed  to  the  ground.  Successive  govern- 
ments, in  shifting  fever-fits  of  liberalism  and  abso- 
lutism, have  set  up  and  pulled  down  his  statue. 
But  his  memory  is  loved  and  honored,  and  the  ex- 
ample of  this  noblest  of  the  Comuneros  impresses 
powerfully  to-day  the  ardent  young  minds  of  the 
new  Spain. 

11^^  Your  first  walk  is  of  course  to  the  Cathedral, 
the  Primate  Church  of  the  kingdom.  Besides  its 
ecclesiastical  importance,  it  is  well  worthy  of  notice 
in  itself.  It  is  one  of  the  purest  specimens  of  Gothic 
architecture  in  existence,  and  is  kept  in  an  admira- 
ble state  of  preservation.  Its  situation  is  not  the 
most  favorable.  It  is  approached  by  a  network  of 
descending  streets,  all  narrow  and  winding,  as  streets 
were  always  built  under  the  intelligent  rule  of  the 
Moors.  They  preferred  to  be  cool  in  summer  and 
sheltered  in  winter,  rather  than  to  lay  out  great 
deserts  of  boulevards,  the  haunts  of  sunstroke  and 
pneumonia.  The  site  of  the  Cathedral  was  chosen 
from  strategic  reasons  by  St.  Eugene,  who  built 
there  his  first  Episcopal  Church.  The  Moors  made 
a  mosque  of  it  when  they  conquered  Castile,  and 
the  fastidious  piety  of  St.  Ferdinand  would  not 
permit  him  to  worship  in  a  shrine  thus  profaned 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  187 

He  tore  down  the  old  church  and  laid,  in  1227,  the 
foundations  of  this  magnificent  structure,  which 
was  two  centuries  after  his  death  in  building.  There 
is,  however,  great  unity  of  purpose  and  execution 
in  this  Cathedral,  due  doubtless  to  the  fact  that  the 
architect  Perez  gave  fifty  years  of  his  long  life  to 
the  superintendence  of  the  early  work.  Inside 
and  outside  it  is  marked  by  a  grave  and  harmonious 
majesty.  The  great  western  fagade  is  enriched 
with  three  splendid  portals,  —  the  side  ones  called 
the  doors  of  Hell  and  Judgment ;  and  the  central  a 
beautiful  ogival  arch  divided  into  two  smaller  ones, 
and  adorned  with  a  lavish  profusion  of  delicately 
sculptured  figures  of  saints  and  prophets ;  on  the 
chaste  and  severe  cornice  above,  a  group  of  spirited 
busts  represents  the  Last  Supper.  There  are  five 
other  doors  to  the  temple,  of  which  the  door  of  the 
Lions  is  the  finest,  and  just  beside  it  a  heavy  Ionic 
portico  in  the  most  detestable  taste  indicates  the 
feeling  and  culture  that  survived  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  IV. 

To  the  north  of  the  west  faqade  rises  the  massive 
tower.  It  is  not  among  the  tallest  in  the  world, 
being  three  hundred  and  twenty-four  feet  high,  but 
is  very  symmetrical  and  impressive.  In  the  preser- 
vation of  its  pyramidal  purpose  it  is  scarcely  infe- 
rior to  that  most  consummate  work,  the  tower  of 
St.  Stephen's  in  Vienna.  It  is  composed  of  three 
superimposed  structures,  gradually  diminishing  in 


188  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

solidity  and  massiveness  from  the  square  base  to 
the  high-springing  octagonal  spire,  garlanded  with 
thorny  crowns.  It  is  balanced  at  the  south  end  of 
the  facade  by  the  pretty  cupola  and  lantern  of  the 
Mozarabic  Chapel,  the  work  of  the  Greek  Theoto- 
copouli. 

But  we  soon  grow  tired  of  the  hot  glare  of  June, 
and  pass  in  a  moment  into  the  cool  twilight  vast- 
ness  of  the  interior,  refreshing  to  body  and  soul. 
Five  fine  naves,  with  eighty-four  pillars  formed 
each  of  sixteen  graceful  columns,  —  the  entire  edi- 
fice measuring  four  hundred  feet  in  length  and  two 
hundred  feet  in  breadth,  —  a  grand  and  shadowy 
temple  grove  of  marble  and  granite.  At  all  times 
the  light  is  of  an  unearthly  softness  and  purity, 
toned  by  the  exquisite  windows  and  rosaces.  But 
as  evening  draws  on,  you  should  linger  till  the 
sacristan  grows  peremptory,  to  watch  the  gorgeous 
glow  of  the  western  sunlight  on  the  blazing  roses 
of  the  portals,  and  the  marvellous  play  of  rich 
shadows  and  faint  gray  lights  in  the  eastern  chapels, 
where  the  grand  aisles  sweep  in  their  perfect  curves 
around  the  high  altar.  A  singular  effect  is  here 
created  by  the  gilded  organ  pipes  thrust  out  hori- 
zontally from  the  choir.  When  the  powerful  choral 
anthems  of  the  church  peal  out  over  the  kneeling 
multitude,  it  requires  little  fancy  to  imagine  them 
the  golden  trumpets  of  concealed  archangels,  who 
would  be  quite  at  home  in  that  incomparable  choir 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  189 

If  one  should  speak  of  all  the  noteworthy  things 
you  meet  in  this  Cathedral,  he  would  find  himself 
in  danger  of  following  in  the  footsteps  of  Mr. 
Parro,  who  wrote  a  handbook  of  Toledo,  in  which 
seven  hundred  and  forty-five  pages  are  devoted  to 
a  hasty  sketch  of  the  Basilica.  For  five  hundred 
years  enormous  wealth  and  fanatical  piety  have 
worked  together  and  in  rivalry  to  beautify  this  spot. 
The  boundless  riches  of  the  Church  and  the  bound- 
less superstition  of  the  laity  have  left  their  traces 
here  in  every  generation  in  forms  of  magnificence 
and  beauty.  Each  of  the  chapels  —  and  there  are 
twenty-one  of  them  —  is  a  separate  masterpiece  in 
its  way.  The  finest  are  those  of  Santiago  and  St. 
Ildefonso, — the  former  built  by  the  famous  Constable 
Alvaro  de  Luna  as  a  burial-place  for  himself  and  fam- 
ily, and  where  he  and  his  wife  lie  in  storied  marble ; 
and  the  other  commemorating  that  celebrated  visit 
of  the  Virgin  to  the  Bishop,  which  is  the  favorite 
theme  of  the -artists  and  ecclesiastical  gossips  of 
Spain. 

There  was  probably  never  a  morning  call  which 
gave  rise  to  so  much  talk.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  the  Virgin  had  come  to  Toledo.  This  was  al- 
ways a  favorite  excursion  of  hers.  She-  had  come 
from  time  to  time,  escorted  by  St.  Peter,  St.  Paul, 
and  St.  James.  But  on  the  morning  in  question, 
which  was  not  long  after  Bishop  Ildefonso  had 
written   his   clever  treatise,   "De  Virginitate  Stao 


190  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Mariae,"  the  Queen  of  Heaven  came  down  to  matin 
prayers,  and,  taking  the  Bishop's  seat,  listened  to 
the  sermon  with  great  edification.  After  service 
she  presented  him  with  a  nice  new  chasuble,  as  his 
own  was  getting  rather  shabby,  made  of  "  cloth  of 
heaven,"  in  token  of  her  appreciation  of  his  spirited 
pamphlet  in  her  defence.  This  chasuble  still  exists 
in  a  chest  in  Asturias.  If  you  open  the  chest,  you 
will  not  see  it ;  but  this  only  proves  the  truth  of 
the  miracle,  for  the  chroniclers  say  the  sacred  vest- 
ment is  invisible  to  mortal  eyes. 

But  we  have  another  and  more  palpable  proof  of 
the  truth  of  the  history.  The  slab  of  marble  on 
which  the  feet  of  the  celestial  visitor  alighted  is 
still  preserved  in  the  Cathedral  in  a  tidy  chapel 
built  on  the  very  spot  where  the  avatar  took  place. 
The  slab  is  enclosed  in  red  jasper  and  guarded  by 
an  iron  grating,  and  above  it  these  words  of  the 
Psalmist  are  engraved  in  the  stone,  Adorabimus  in 
loco  ubi  steterunt  pedes  ejus. 

This  story  is  cut  in  marble  and  carved  in  wood 
and  drawn  upon  brass  and  painted  upon  canvas,  in 
a  thousand  shapes  and  forms  all  over  Spain.  You 
see  in  the  Museum  at  Madrid  a  picture  by  Murillo 
devoted  to  this  idle  fancy  of  a  cunning  or  dreaming 
priest.  The  subject  was  unworthy  of  the  painter, 
and  the  result  is  what  might  have  been  expected, — 
a  picture  of  trivial  and  mundane  beauty,  without 
the  least  sufrgestion  of  spirituality. 


THE   CITY   OF   THE    VISIGOTHS.  191 

But  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  serious,  solemn 
earnestness  with  which  the  worthy  Castilians  from 
that  day  to  this  believe  the  romance.  They  came 
up  in  groups  and  families,  touching  their  fingers  to 
the  sacred  slab  and  kissing  them  reverentially  with 
muttered  prayers.  A  father  would  take  the  first 
kiss  himself,  and  pass  his  consecrated  finger  around 
among  his  awe-struck  babes,  who  were  too  brief  to 
reach  to  the  grating.  Even  the  aged  verger  who 
showed  us  the  shrine,  who  was  so  frail  and  so  old 
that  we  thought  he  might  be  a  ghost  escaped  from 
some  of  the  mediieval  tombs  in  the  neighborhood, 
never  passed  that  pretty  white-and-gold  chapel 
without  sticking  in  his  thumb  and  pulling  out  a 
blessing.  J I 

A  few  feet  from  this  worship- worn  stone,  a  circle 
drawn  on  one  of  the  marble  flags  marks  the  spot 
where  Santa  Leocadia  also  appeared  to  this  same 
favored  Ildefonso  and  made  her  compKments  on  his 
pamphlet.  Was  ever  author  so  happy  in  his  sub- 
ject and  his  gentle  readers  ?  The  good  Bishop  evi- 
de!itly  thought  the  story  of  this  second  apparition 
might  be  considered  rather  a  heavy  draught  on  the 
credulity  of  his  flock,  so  he  whipped  out  a  con- 
venient knife  and  cut  off  a  piece  of  her  saintship's 
veil,  which  clenched  the  narrative  and  struck 
doubters  dumb.  That  great  king  and  crazy  relic- 
hunter,  Philip  II.,  saw  this  rag  in  his  time  with 
profound   emotion,  —  this   tiger  heart,  who   could 


192  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

order  the  murder  of  a  thousand  innocent  beings 
without  a  pang. 

There  is  another  chapel  in  this  Cathedral  which 
preaches  forever  its  silent  condemnation  of  Spanish 
bigotry  to  deaf  ears.  This  is  the  Mozarabic  Chapel, 
sacred  to  the  celebration  of  the  early  Christian  rite 
of  Spain.  During  the  three  centuries  of  Moorish 
domination  the  enlightened  and  magnanimous  con- 
querors guaranteed  to  those  Christians  who  remained 
within  their  lines  the  free  exercise  of  aU  their  rights, 
including  perfect  freedom  of  worship.  So  that  side 
by  side  the  mosque  and  the  church  worshipped  God 
each  in  its  own  way  without  fear  or  wrong.  But 
when  Alonso  VI.  recaptured  the  city  in  the  eleventh' 
century,  he  wished  to  establish  uniformity  of  wor- 
ship, and  forbade  the  use  of  the  ancient  liturgy  in 
Toledo.  That  which  the  heathen  had  respected  the 
Catholic  outraged.  The  great  Cardinal  Ximenez 
restored  the  primitive  rite  and  devoted  this  charm- 
ing chapel  to  its  service.  How  ill  a  return  was 
made  for  Moorish  tolerance  we  see  in  the  infernal 
treatment  they  afterwards  received  from  king  and 
Church.  They  made  them  choose  between  conver- 
sion and  death.  They  embraced  Christianity  to 
save  their  lives.  Then  the  priests  said,  "Perhaps 
this  conversion  is  not  genuine!  Let  us  send  the 
heathen  away  out  of  our  sight."  One  million  of 
the  best  citizens  of  Spain  were  thus  torn  from  their 
homes  and  landed  starving  on  the  wild  African 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  193 

coast.  And  Te  Deums  were  sung  in  the  churches 
for  this  triumph  of  Catholic  unity.  From  that 
hour  Spain  has  never  prospered.  It  seems  as  if 
she  were  lying  ever  since  under  the  curse  of  these 
breaking  hearts. 

Passing  by  a  world  of  artistic  beauties  which 
never  tire  the  eyes  but  soon  would  tire  the  chron- 
icler and  reader,  stepping  over  the  broad  bronze 
slab  in  the  floor  which  covers  the  dust  of  the 
haughty  primate  Porto  Carrero,  but  which  bears 
neither  name  nor  date,  only  this  inscription  of  ar- 
rogant humility,  Hic  jacet  pulvis  cinis  et  nihil, 
we  walk  into  the  verdurous  and  cheerful  Gothic 
cloisters.  They  occupy  the  site  of  the  ancient 
Jewish  markets,  and  the  zealous  prelate  Tenorio, 
cousin  to  the  great  lady's  man  Don  Juan,  could 
think  of  no  better  way  of  acquiring  the  ground 
than  that  of  stirring  up  the  mob  to  bum  the  houses 
of  the  heretics.  A  fresco  that  adorns  the  gate  ex- 
plains the  means  employed,  adding  insult  to  the 
old  injury.  It  is  a  picture  of  a  beautiful  child 
hanging  upon  a  cross;  a  fiendish-looking  Jew,  on  a 
ladder  beside  him,  holds  in  his  hand  the  child's 
heart,  which  he  has  just  taken  from  his  bleeding 
breast;  he  holds  the  dripping  knife  in  his  teeth. 
This  brutal  myth  was  used  for  centuries  with  great 
effect  by  the  priesthood  upon  the  mob  whenever 
they  wanted  a  Jew's  money  or  his  blood.  Even 
to-day  the  old  poison  has  not  lost  its  power.    This 


194  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

very  morning  I  heard  under  my  window  loud  and 
shrill  voices.  I  looked  out  and  saw  a  group  of 
brown  and  ragged  women,  with  babies  in  their 
arms,  discussing  the  news  from  Madrid.  The 
Protestants,  they  said,  had  begun  to  steal  Catholic 
children.  They  talked  them§elves  into  a  fury. 
Their  elf-locks  hung  about  their  fierce  black  eyes. 
The  sinews  of  their  lean  necks  worked  tensely  in 
their  voluble  rage.  Had  they  seen  our  mild  mis- 
sionary at  that  moment,  whom  all  men  respect  and 
all  children  instinctively  love,  they  would  have  torn 
him  in  pieces  in  their  Msened  fury,  and  would  have 
thought  they  were  doing  their  duty  as  mothers  and 
Catholics. 

This  absurd  and  devilish  charge  was  seriously 
made  in  a  Madrid  journal,  the  organ  of  the  Mod- 
erates, and  caused  great  fermentation  for  several 
days,  street  rows,  and  debates  in  the  Cortes,  before 
the  excitement  died  away.  Last  summer,  in  the  old 
Murcian  town  of  Lorca,  an  English  gentleman,  who 
had  been  several  weeks  in  the  place,  was  attacked 
and  nearly  killed  by  a  mob,  who  insisted  that  he 
was  engaged  in  the  business  of  stealing  children, 
and  using  their  spinal  marrow  for  lubricating  tele- 
graph wires !  What  a  picture  of  blind  and  savage 
ignorance  is  here  presented  !  It  reminds  us  of  that 
sad  and  pitiful  "  blood-bath  revolt "  of  Paris,  where 
the  wretched  mob  rose  against  the  wretched  tyrant 
Louis  XV.,  accusing  him  of  bathing  in  the  blood 


THE   CITY   OF   THE  VISIGOTHS.  195 

of  children  to  restore  his  own  wasted  and  corrupted 
energies. 

Toledo  is  a  city  where  you  should  eschew  guides 
and  trust  implicitly  to  chance  in  your  wanderings. 
You  can  never  be  lost ;  the  town  is  so  small  that  a 
short  walk  always  brings  you  to  the  river  or  the 
wall,  and  there  you  can  take  a  new  departure.  If 
you  do  not  know  where  you  are  going,  you  have 
every  moment  the  delight  of  some  unforeseen  pleas- 
ure.  There  is  not  a  street  in  Toledo  that  is  not  rich 
in  treasures  of  architecture,  —  hovels  that  once  were 
marvels  of  building,  balconies  of  curiously  wrought 
iron,  great  doors  with  sculptured  posts  and  lin- 
tels, with  gracefully  finished  hinges,  and  studded 
with  huge  nails  whose  fanciful  heads  are  as  large 
as  billiard  balls.  Some  of  these  are  still  handsome 
residences,  but  most  have  fallen  into  neglect  and 
abandonment.  You  may  find  a  beggar  installed  in 
the  ruined  palace  of  a  Moorish  prince,  a  cobbler 
at  work  in  the  pleasure-house  of  a  Castilian  con- 
queror. The  graceful  carvings  are  mutilated  and- 
destroyed,  the  delicate  arabesques  are  smothered 
and  hidden  under  a  triple  coat  of  whitewash.  The-J 
most  beautiful  Moorish  house  in  the  city,  the  so- 
called  Taller  del  Moro,  where  the  grim  Governor  of 
Huesca  invited  four  hundred  influential  gentlemen 
of  the  province  to  a  political  dinner,  and  cut  off  all 
their  heads  as  they  entered  (if  we  may  believe  the 
chronicle,  which  we  do  not),  is  now  empty  and  rapid- 


196  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

ly  going  to  ruin.  The  exquisite  panelling  of  the 
walls,  the  endlessly  varied  stucco  work  that  seems 
to  have  been  wrought  by  the  deft  fingers  of  inge- 
nious fairies,  is  shockingly  broken  and  marred. 
Gigantic  cacti  look  into  the  windows  from  the  outer 
court.  A  gay  pomegranate-tree  flings  its  scarlet 
blossoms  in  on  the  ruined  floor.  Eude  little  birds 
have  built  their  nests  in  the  beautiful  fretted  rafters, 
and  flutter  in  and  out  as  busy  as  brokers.  But  of 
all  the  feasting  and  loving  and  plotting  these  lovely 
walls  beheld  in  that  strange  age  that  seems  like 
fable  now,  —  the  vivid,  intelligent,  scientific,  toler- 
ant age-  of  the  Moors,  —  even  the  memory  has 
perished  utterly  and  forever. 

We  strolled  away  aimlessly  from  this  beautiful 
desolation,  and  soon  came  out  upon  the  bright  and 
airy  Paseo  del  Transito.  The  afternoon  sunshine 
lay  warm  on  the  dull  brown  suburb,  but  a  breeze 
blew  freshly  through  the  dark  river-gorge,  and  we 
sat  upon  the  stone  benches  bordering  the  bluff  and 
gave  ourselves  up  to  the  scene.  To  the  right  were 
the  ruins  of  the  Eoman  bridge  and  the  Moorish 
mills ;  to  the  left  the  airy  arch  of  San  Martin's 
bridge  spanned  the  bounding  torrent,  and  far  be- 
yond stretched  the  vast  expanse  of  the  green  val- 
ley refreshed  by  the  river,  and  rolling  in  rank  waves 
of  verdure  to  the  blue  hills  of  Guadalupe.  Below 
us  on  the  slippery  rocks  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
sheer  cliffs,  some  luxurious  fishermen  reclined;  idly 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  197 

watching  their  idle  lines.  The  hills  stretched  away, 
ragged  and  rocky,  dotted  with  solitary  towers  and 
villas. 

A  squad  of  beggars  rapidly  gathered,  attracted  by 
the  gracious  faces  of  Las  Senoras.  Begging  seems 
almost  the  only  regular  industry  of  Toledo.  Be- 
sides the  serious  professionals,  who  are  real  artists 
in  studied  misery  and  ingenious  deformity,  all  the 
children  in  town  occasionally  leave  their  marbles 
and  their  leap-frog  to  turn  an  honest  penny  by 
amateur  mendicancy. 

A  chorus  of  piteous  whines  went  up.  But  La 
Senora  was  firm.  She  checked  the  ready  hands  of 
the  juveniles.  "  Children  should  not  be  encouraged 
to  pursue  this  wretched  life.  We  should  give  only 
to  blind  men,  because  here  is  a  great  and  evident 
affliction  ;  and  to  old  women,  because  they  look  so 
lonely  about  the  boots."  The  exposition  was  so 
subtle  and  logical  that  it  admitted  no  reply.  The 
old  women  and  the  blind  men  shuffled  away  with 
their  pennies,  and  we  began  to  chaff  the  sturdy  and 
rosy  children. 

A  Spanish  beggar  can  bear  anything  but  banter. 
He  is  a  keen  physiognomist,  and  selects  his  victims 
with  unerring  acumen.  If  you  storm  or  scowl  at 
him,  he  knows  he  is  making  you  uncomfortable,  and 
hangs  on  like  a  burr.  But  if  you  laugh  at  him, 
with  good  humor,  he  is  disarmed.  A  friend  of  mine 
reduced  to  confusion  one  of  the  most  unabashed 


198  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

mendicants  in  Castile  by  replying  to  his  whining 
petition,  politely  and  with  a  beaming  smile,  "  No, 
thank  you.  I  never  eat  them."  The  beggar  is  far 
from  considering  his  employment  a  degrading  one. 
It  is  recognized  by  the  Church,  and  the  obligation 
of  this  form  of  charity  especially  inculcated.  The 
average  Spaniard  regards  it  as  a  sort  of  tax  to  be  as 
readily  satisfied  as  a  toll-fee.  He  will  often  stop 
and  give  a  beggar  a  cent,  and  wait  for  the  change 
in  maravedises.  One  day,  at  the  railway  station,  a 
muscular  rogue  approached  fne  and  begged  for  alms. 
I  offered  him  my  sac-de-nuit  to  carry  a  block  or 
two.  He  drew  himself  up  proudly  and  said,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  no  Gallician." 

An  old  woman  came  up  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  "  Can  it  be  possible  in  this  far  country,"  said 
La  Senora,  "  or  are  these  —  yes,  they  are,  deliberate 
peanuts."  With  a  penny  we  bought  unlimited 
quantities  of  this  levelling  edible,  and  with  them 
the  devoted  adherence  of  the  aged  merchant.  She 
immediately  took  charge  of  our  education.  We 
nmst  see  Santa  Maria  la  Blanca,  —  it  was  a  beautiful 
thing  ;  so  was  the  Transito.  Did  we  see  those  men 
and  women  grubbing  in  the  hillside  ?  They  were 
digging  bones  to  sell  at  the  station.  Where  did  the 
bones  come  from  ?  Quien  sale  ?  Those  dust-heaps 
have  been  there  since  King  Wamba.  Come,  we 
must  go  and  see  the  Churches  of  Mary  before  it 
grew  dark.     And  the  zealous  old  creature  marched 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  199 

away  with  us  to  the  synagogue  built  by  Samuel 
Ben  Levi,  treasurer  to  that  crowned  panther,  Peter 
the  Cruel.  This  able  financier  built  this  fine  temple 
to  the  God  of  his  fathers  out  of  his  own  purse.  He 
was  murdered  for  his  money  by  his  ungrateful  lord, 
and  his  synagogue  stolen  by  the  Church,  It  now 
belongs  to  the  order  of  Calatrava.  , 

But  the  other  and  older  synagogue,  now  called  ^ 
Santa  Maria  la  Blanca,  is  much  more  interesting. 
It  stands  in  the  same  quarter,  the  suburb  formerly 
occupied  by  the  industrious  and  thriving  Hebrews 
of  the  Middle  Ages  until  the  stupid  zeal  of  the 
Catholic  kings  drove  them  out  of  Spain.  The 
synagogue  was  built  in  the  ninth  century  under 
tLe  enlightened  domination  of  the  Moors.  At  the 
slaughter  of  the  Jews  in  1405  it  became  a  church. 
It  has  passed  through  varjdng  fortunes  since  then, 
having  been  hospital,  hermitage,  stable,  and  ware- 
house ;  but  it  is  now  under  the  care  of  the  provin- 
cial committee  of  art,  and  is  somewhat  decently  re- 
stored. Its  architecture  is  altogether  Moorish.  Itj 
has  three  aisles  with  thick  octagonal  columns  sup- 
porting heavy  horse-shoe  arches.  The  spandrels  are 
curiously  adorned  with  rich  circular  stucco  figures. 
The  soil  you  tread  is  sacred,  for  it  was  brought  from 
Zion  long  before  the  Crusades,  and  the  cedar  rafters 
above  you  preserve  the  memory  and  the  odors  of 
Lebanon. 

A  little  further  west,  on  a  fine  hill  overlooking 


200  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  river,  in  the  midst  of  the  ruined  palaces  of  the 
.  early  kings,  stands  the  beautiful  votive  church  of 
I  San  Juan  de  los  Keyes.  It  was  built  by  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  before  the  Columbus  days,  to  com- 
memorate a  victory  over  their  neighbors  the  Portu- 
guese. During  a  prolonged  absence  of  the  king, 
the  pious  queen,  wishing  to  prepare  him  a  pleasant 
surprise,  instead  of  embroidering  a  pair  of  imprac- 
ticable slippers  as  a  faithful  young  wife  would  do 
nowadays,  finished  this  exquisite  church  by  setting 
at  work  upon  it  some  regiments  of  stone-cutters  and 
builders.  It  is  not  difiicult  to  imagine  the  beauty 
of  the  structure  that  greeted  the  king  on  his  wel- 
come home.  For  even  now,  after  the  storms  of  four 
centuries  have  beaten  upon  it,  and  the  malignant 
hands  of  invading  armies  have  used  their  utmost 
malice  against  it,  it  is  still  a  wondrously  perfect 
/  work  of  the  Gothic  inspiration. 

We  sat  on  the  terrace  benches  to  enjoy  the  light 
and  graceful  lines  of  the  building,  the  delicately 
ornate  door,  the  unique  drapery  of  iron  chains 
which  the  freed  Christians  hung  here  when  de- 
livered from  the  hands  of  the  Moors.  A  lovely 
child,  with  pensive  blue  eyes  fringed  with  long 
lashes,  and  the  slow  sweet  smile  of  a  Madonna,  sat 
near  us  and  sang  to  a  soft,  monotonous  air  a  war 
song  of  the  Carlists.  Her  beauty  soon  attracted 
the  artistic  eyes  of  La  Senora,  and  we  learned  she 
was  named  Francisca,  and  her  baby  brother,  whose 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  201 

flaxen  head  lay  heavily  on  her  shoulder,  was  called 
Jesus  Mary.  She  asked,  Would  we  like  to  go  in  the 
church  ?  She  knew  the  sacristan  and  would  go  for 
him.  She  ran  away  like  a  fawn,  the  tow  head  of 
little  Jesus  tumbling  dangerously  about.  She  re- 
appeared in  a  moment ;  she  had  disposed  of  mi  nino, 
as  she  called  it,  and  had  found  the  sacristan.  This 
personage  was  rather  disappointing.  A  sacristan 
should  be  aged  and  mouldy,  clothed  in  black  of  a 
decent  shabbiness.  This  was  a  Toledan  swell  in  a 
velvet  shooting-jacket  and  yellow  peg-top  trousers. 
However,  he  had  the  wit  to  confine  himself  to  turn- 
ing keys,  and  so  we  gradually  recovered  from  the,— 
shock  of  the  shooting-jacket.  ^^^-n  \ 

The  church  forms  one  great  nave,  divided  into 
four  vaults  enriched  with  wonderful  stone  lace- 
work.  A  superb  frieze  surrounds  the  entire  nave, 
bearing  in  great  Gothic  letters  an  inscription  nar- 
rating the  foundation  of  the  church.  Everywhere 
the  arms  of  Castile  and  Arragon,  and  the  wedded 
ciphers  of  the  Catholic  kings.  Statues  of  heralds 
start  unexpectedly  out  from  the  face  of  the  pillars. 
Fine  as  the  church  is,  we  cannot  linger  here  long. 
The  glory  of  San  Juan  is  its  cloisters.  It  may 
challenge  the  world  to  show  anything  so  fine  in 
the  latest  bloom  and  last  development  of  Gothic 
art.  One  'of  the  galleries  is  in  ruins,  —  a  sad  wit- 
ness of  the  brutality  of  armies.  But  the  three 
others  are  enough  to  show  how  much  of  beauty 


202  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

was  possible  in  that  final  age  of  pure  Gothic  build- 
ing. The  arches  bear  a  double  garland  of  leaves, 
of  flowers,  and  of  fruits,  and  among  them  are  ramp- 
ing and  writhing  and  playing  every  figure  of  bird 
or  beast  or  monster  that  man  has  seen  or  poet 
imagined.  There  are  no  two  arches  alike,  and  yet 
a  most  beautiful  harmony  pervades  them  all.  In 
some  the  leaves  are  in  profile,  in  others  delicately 
spread  upon  the  graceful  columns  and  every  vein 
displayed.  I  saw  one  window  where  a  stone  mon- 
key sat  reading  his  prayers,  gowned  and  cowled,  — 
an  odd  caprice  of  the  tired  sculptor.  There  is  in 
this  infinite  variety  of  detail  a  delight  that  ends  in 
something  like  fatigue.  You  cannot  help  feeling 
that  this  was  naturally  and  logically  the  end  of 
Gothic  art.  It  had  run  its  course.  There  was 
nothing  left  but  this  feverish  quest  of  variety.  It 
was  in  danger,  after  having  gained  such  divine 
heights  of  invention,  of  degenerating  into  pretti- 
nesses  and  affectation. 

But  how  marvellously  fine  it  was  at  last !  One 
must  see  it,  as  in  these  unequalled  cloisters,  half 
ruined,  silent,  and  deserted,  bearing  with  something 
of  conscious  dignity  the  blows  of  time  and  the 
ruder  wrongs  of  men,  to  appreciate  fully  its  proud 
superiority  to  all  the  accidents  of  changing  taste 
and  modified  culture.  It  is  only  the  truest  art  that 
can  bear  that  test.  The  fanes  of  Paestum  wiU  al- 
ways be  more  beautiful  even  than  the  magical  shore 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  203 

on  which  they  stand.  The  Parthenon,  fixed  like  a 
battered  coronet  on  the  brow  of  the  Acropolis,  will 
always  be  the  loveliest  sight  that  Greece  can  offer 
to  those  who  come  sailing  in  from  the  blue  ^gean.  It 
is  scarcely  possible  to  imagine  a  condition  of  thought 
or  feeling  in  which  these  master- works  shall  seem 
quaint  or  old-fashioned.  They  appeal,  now  and  al- 
ways, with  that  calm  power  of  perfection,  to  the 
heart  and  eyes  of  every  man  bom  of  woman. 

The  cloisters  enclose  a  little  garden  just  enough 
neglected  to  allow  the  lush  dark  ivy,  the  passion- 
flowers, and  the  spreading  oleanders  to  do  their 
best  in  beautifying  the  place,  as  men  have  done 
their  worst  in  marring  it.  The  clambering  vines 
seem  trying  to  hide  the  scars  of  their  hardly  less 
perfect  copies.  Every  arch  is  adorned  with  a  soft 
and  delicious  drapery  of  leaves  and  tendrils ;  the 
fair  and  outraged  child  of  art  is  cherished  and 
caressed  by  the  gracious  and  bountiful  hands  of 
Mother  Nature. 

As  we  came  away,  little  Francisca  plucked  one 
of  the  five-pointed  leaves  of  the  passion-flowers 
and  gave  it  to  La  Senora,  saying  reverentially, 
"  This  is  the  Hand  of  Our  Blessed  Lord ! 

The  sun  was  throned,  red  as  a  bacchanal 
upon  the  purple  hills,  as  we  descended  the  rocky 
declivity  and  crossed  the  bridge  of  St.  Martin.  Our 
little  Toledan  maid  came  with  us,  talking  and  sing- 
ing incessantly,  like  a  sweet-voiced  starling.    We 


entially, 
al  kin^y 


204  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

rested  on  the  further  side  and  looked  back  at  the 
towering  city,  glorious  in  the  sunset,  its  spires 
aflame,  its  long  lines  of  palace  and  convent  clear 
in  the  level  rays,  its  ruins  softened  in  the  gathering 
shadows,  the  lofty  bridge  hanging  transfigured  over 
/^the  glowing  river.  Before  us  the  crumbling  walls 
and  turrets  of  the  Gothic  kings  ran  down  from  the 
bluff  to  the  water-side,  its  terrace  overlooking  the 
baths  where,  for  his  woe,  Don  Koderick  saw  Count 
Julian's  daughter  under  the  same  inflammatory  cir- 
cumstances as  those  in  which,  from  a  Judeean  house- 
top, Don  David  beheld  Captain  Uriah's  wife.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  human   nature  abroad  in  the 


U 


world  in  all  ages. 

Little  Francisca  kept  on  chattering.  "That  is 
St.  Martin's  bridge.  A  girl  jumped  into  the  water 
last  year.  She  was  not  a  lady.  She  was  in  ser- 
vice. She  was  tired  of  living  because  she  was  in 
love.  They  found  her  three  weeks  afterwards ;  but, 
Santisima   Maria !  she  was  good  for  nothing  then." 

Our  little  maid  was  too  young  to  have  sympathy 
for  kings  or  servant  girls  who  die  for  love.  She 
was  a  pretty  picture  as  she  sat  there,  her  blue  eyes 
and  Madonna  face  turned  to  the  rosy  west,  singing 
in  her  sweet  child's  voice  her  fierce  little  song  of 
sedition  and  war :  — 

Arriba  los  valientes ! 
Abajo  tirania ! 
Pronto  Uegara  el  dia 
De  la  Eestauracion. 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  205 

Carlistas  d  caballo ! 
Soldados  en  Campana ! 
Viva  el  Key  de  Espana, 
Don  Carlos  de  Borbon ! 

I  cannot  ennmerate  the  churches  of  Toledo, — 
you  find  them  in  every  street  and  by-way.  In  the 
palmy  days  of  the  absolute  Theocracy  this  narrow 
space  contained  more  than  a  himdred  churches  and 
chapels.  The  province  was  gnawed  by  the  cancer 
of  sixteen  monasteries  of  monks  and  twice  as  many 
convents  of  nuns,  all  crowded  within  these  city 
walls.  Fully  one  haK  the  ground  of  the  city  was 
covered  by  religious  buildings  and  mortmain  prop- 
erty. In  that  age,  when  money  meant  ten  times  ^ 
what  it  signifies  now,  the  rent-roU.  of  the  Church  in 
Toledo  was  forty  millions  of  reals.  There  are  even 
yet  portions  of  the  town  where  you  find  nothing 
but  churches  and  convents.  The  grass  grows  green- 
ly in  the  silent  streets.  You  hear  nothing  but  the 
chime  of  bells  and  the  faint  echoes  of  masses.  You 
see  on  every  side  bolted  doors  and  barred  windows, 
and,  gliding  over  the  mossy  pavements,  the  stealthy- 
stepping,  long-robed  priests. 

I  will  only  mention  two  more  churches,  and  both 
of  these  converts  from  heathendom ;  both  of  them 
dedicated  to  San  Cristo,  for  in  the  democracy  of  the 
Calendar  the  Saviour  is  merely  a  saint,  and  reduced  , 
to  the  level  of  the  rest.     One  is  the  old  pretorian^i 
temple  of  the  Komans,  which  was  converted  by 


206  CASTILIAN  DAYS 

King  Sizebuto  into  a  Christian  clinrcli  in  the  seventh 
century.  It  is  a  curious  structure  in  brick  and 
mortar,  with  an  absis  and  an  odd  arrangement  of 
round  arches  sunken  in  the  outer  wall  and  still 
deeper  pointed  ones.  It  is  famed  as  the  resting- 
place  of  Saints  Ildefonso  and  Leocadia,  whom  we 
have  met  before.  The  statue  of  the  latter  stands 
over  the  door  graceful  and  pensive  enough  for  a 
heathen  muse.  The  little  cloisters  leading  to  the 
church  are  burial  vaults.  On  one  side  lie  the 
canonical  dead  and  on  the  other  the  laity,  with 
bright  marble  tablets  and  gilt  inscriptions.  In  the 
court  outside  I  noticed  a  flat  stone  marked  Ossim- 
rium.  The  sacristan  told  me  this  covered  the  pit 
where  the  nameless  dead  reposed,  and  when  the 
genteel  people  in  the  gilt  marble  vaults  neglected 
to  pay  their  annual  rent,  they  were  taken  out  and 
tumbled  in  to  moulder  with  the  common  clay. 

This  San  Cristo  de  la  Yega,  St.  Christ  of  the 
Plain,  stands  on  the  wide  flat  below  the  town, 
where  you  find  the  greater  portion  of  the  Roman 
remains.  Heaps  of  crumbling  composite  stretched 
in  an  oval  form  over  the  meadow  mark  the  site  of 
the  great  circus.  Green  turf  and  fields  of  waving 
grain  occupy  the  ground  where  once  a  Latin  city 
r~stood.  The  Eomans  built  on  the  plain.  The  Goths, 
following  their  instinct  of  isolation,  fixed  their 
dwelling  on  the  steep  and  rugged  rock.  The  rapid 
Tagus  girdling  the  city  like  a  horse-shoe  left  only 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  207 

the  declivity  to  the  west  to  be  defended,  and  the 
ruins  of  King  Wamba's  wall  show  with  what  jeal- 
ous care  that  work  was  done.  But  the  Moors,  after 
they  captured  the  city,  apparently  did  little  for  its 
defence.  A  great  suburb  grew  up  in  the  course  of 
ages  outside  the  wall,  and  when  the  Christians  re- 
captured  Toledo  in  1085,  the  first  care  of  Alonso 
VI.  was  to  build  another  wall,  this  time  nearer  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  taking  inside  all  the  accretion  of 
these  years.  From  that  day  to  this  that  wall  has 
held  Toledo.  The  city  has  never  reached,  perhaps 
will  never  reach,  the  base  of  the  steep  rock  on  which 
it  stands. 

When  King  Alonso  stormed  the  city,  his  first 
thought,  in  the  busy  half-hour  that  follows  victory, 
was  to  find  some  convenient  place  to  say  his 
prayers.  Chance  led  him  to  a  beautiful  little 
Moorish  mosque  or  oratory  near  the  superb  Puerta 
del  Sol.  He  entered,  gave  thanks,  and  hung  up  his 
shield  as  a  votive  offering.  This  is  the  Church  of 
San  Cristo  de  la  Luz.  The  shield  of  Alonso  hangs 
there  defying  time  for  eight  centuries,  —  a  golden 
cross  on  a  red  field, — and  the  exquisite  oratory,  not 
much  larger  than  a  child's  toy-house,  is  to-day  one 
of  the  most  charmiag  specimens  of  Moorish  art  in 
SpaiQ.  Four  square  pillars  support  the  roof,  which 
is  divided  into  five  equal  "  half-orange  "  domes,  each 
different  from  the  others  and  each  equally  fasci- 
nating in  its  unexpected  simplicity  and  grace.    You 


208  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

cannot  avoid  a  feeling  of  personal  kindliness  and 
respect  for  the  refined  and  genial  spirit  who  left 
this  elegant  legacy  to  an  alien  race  and  a  hostile 
creed. 
r^  The  Military  College  of  Santa  Cruz  is  one  of  the 
most  precious  specimens  extant  of  those  somewhat 
confused  but  beautiful  results  of  the  transition  from 
florid  Gothic  to  the  Eenaissance.  The  plateresque 
is  young  and  modest,  and  seeks  to  please  in  this 
splendid  monument  by  allying  the  innovating  forms 
with  the  traditions  of  a  school  outgrown.  There  is 
an  exquisite  and  touching  reminiscence  of  the 
Gothic  in  the   superb  portal  and   the   matchless 

U group  of  the  Invention  of  the  Cross.  All  this 
Rne  fagade  is  by  that  true  and  genuine  artist, 
Enrique  de  Egas,  the  same  who  carved  the  grand 
Gate  of  the  Lions,  for  which  may  the  gate  of  para- 
dise be  open  to  him. 

The  inner  court  is  surrounded  by  two  stories 
of  airy  arcades,  supported  by  slim  Corinthian 
columns.  In  one  comer  is  the  most  elaborate  stair- 
case in  Spain.  All  the  elegance  and  fancy  of  Arab 
and  Renaissance  art  have  been  lavished  upon  this 
masterly  work. 

Santa  Cruz  was  built  for  a  hospital  by  that 
haughty  Cardinal  Mendoza,  the  Tertius  Rex  of  Fer- 
dinand and  Isabella.  It  is  now  occupied  by  the 
military  school,  which  receives  six  hundred  cadets. 
They  are  under  the  charge  of  an  Inspector-General 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   VISIGOTHS.  209 

and  a  numerous  staff  of  professors.  They  pay  forty 
cents  a  day  for  their  board.  The  instruction  is 
gratuitous  and  comprehends  a  curriculum  almost 
identical  with  that  of  West  Point.  It  occupies^ 
however,  only  three  years. 

The  most  considerable  Kenaissance  structure  in 
Toledo  is  the  Eoyal  Alcazar.  It  covers  with  its 
vast  bulk  the  highest  hill-top  in  the  city.  From 
the  earliest  antiquity  this  spot  has  been  occupied  by 
a  royal  palace  or  fortress.  But  the  present  struc- 
ture was  built  by  Charles  V.  and  completed  by 
Herrera  for  Philip  II.  Its  north  and  south  facades 
are  very  fine.  The  Alcazar  seems  to  have  been 
marked  by  fate.  The  Portuguese  burned  it  in  the 
last  century,  and  Charles  III.  restored  it  just  in 
time  for  the  French  to  destroy  it  anew.  Its  inde- 
structible walls  alone  remain.  Now,  after  many 
years  of  ruinous  neglect,  the  government  has  begun 
the  work  of  restoration.  The  vast  quadrangle  is  one 
mass  of  scaffolding  and  plaster  dust.  The  grand 
staircase  is  ahnost  finished  again.  In  the  course  of 
•a  few  years  we  may  expect  to  see  the  Alcazar  in  a 
state  worthy  of  its  name  and  history.  We  would^^l 
hope  it  might  never  again  shelter  a  king.  They  have 
had  their  day  there.  Their  line  goes  back  so  far 
into  the  mists  of  time  that  its  beginning  eludes  our 
utmost  search.  The  Koman  drove  out  the  unnamed 
chiefs  of  Iberia.  The  fair-haired  Goth  dispossessed 
the   Italian.      The    Berber   destroyed    the   Gothic 


210  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

monarchy..  Castile  and  Leon  fought  their  way- 
down  inch  by  inch  through  three  centuries  from 
Covadonga  to  Toledo,  half-way  in  time  and  terri- 
tory to  Granada  and  the  Midland  Sea.  And  since 
then  how  many  royal  feet  have  trodden  this  breezy 
crest,  —  Sanchos  and  Henrys  and  Ferdinands,  —  the 
line  broken  now  and  then  by  a  usurping  uncle  or  a 
fratricide  brother,  —  a  red-handed  bastard  of  Trasta- 
mara,  a  star-gazing  Alonso,  a  plotting  and  praying 
Charles,  and,  after  Philip,  the  dwindling  scions  of 
Austria  and  the  nullities  of  Bourbon.  This  height 
has  known  as  well  the  rustle  of  the  trailing  robes 
of  queens,  —  Berenguela,  Isabel  the  Catholic,  and 
Juana, — Crazy  Jane.  It  was  the  prison  of  the  widow 
of  Philip  IV.  and  mother  of  Charles  II.  What 
wonder  if  her  life  left  much  to  be  desired  ?  With 
such  a  husband  and  such  a  son,  she  had  no  mem- 
ories nor  hopes. 

The  kings  have  had  a  long  day  here.  They  did 
some  good  in  their  time.  But  the  world  has  out- 
grown them,  and  the  people,  here  as  elsewhere,  is 
coming  of  age.  This  Alcazar  is  built  more  strongly 
than  any  dynasty.  It  will  make  a  glorious  school- 
house  when  the  repairs  are  finished  and  the  Ee- 
public  is  established,  and  then  may  both  last  for- 
\  ever ! 

One  morning  at  sunrise,  I  crossed  the  ancient 
bridge  of  Alcantara,  and  climbed  the  steep  hill 
east  of  the  river  to  the  ruined  castle  of  San  Cer- 


THE   CITY   OF   THE  VISIGOTHS.  211 

vantes,  perched  on  a  high,  bold  rock,  which  guards 
the  river  and  overlooks  the  valley.  Near  as  it  is  to 
the  city,  it  stands  entirely  alone.  The  instinct  of 
aggregation  is  so  powerful  in  this  people  that  the 
old  towns  have  no  environs,  no  houses  sprinkled  in 
the  outlying  country,  like  modern  cities.  Every  one 
must  be  huddled  inside  the  walls.  If  a  solitary 
house,  like  this  castle,  is  built  without,  it  must  be 
in  itseK  an  impregnable  fortress.  This  fine  old 
ruin,  in  obedience  to  this  instinct  of  jealous  dis- 
trust, has  but  one  entrance,  and  that  so  narrow  that 
Sir  John  Falstaff  would  have  been  embarrassed  to 
accept  its  hospitalities.  In  the  shade  of  the  broken 
walls,  grass-grown  and  gay  with  scattered  poppies, 
I  looked  at  Toledo,  fresh  and  clear  in  the  early  day. 
On  the  extreme  right  lay  the  new  spick-and-span 
buU-ring,  then  the  great  hospice  and  Chapel  of  St. 
John  the  Baptist,  the  Convent  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  and  next,  the  Latin  cross  of  the  Chapel 
of  Santa  Cruz,  whose  beautiful  facade  lay  soft  in 
shadow;  the  huge  arrogant  bulk  of  the  Alcazar 
loomed  squarely  before  me,  hiding  half  the  view ; 
to  the  left  glittered  the  slender  spire  of  the  Cathe- 
dral, holding  up  in  the  pure  air  that  emblem  of 
august  resignation,  the  triple  crown  of  thorns ;  then 
a  crowd  of  cupolas,  ending  at  ^asc  near  the  river- 
banks  with  the  sharp  angular  mass  of  San  Cristobal. 
The  field  of  vision  was  filled  with  churches  and 
chapels,  with  the  palaces  of  the  king  and  the  monk. 


212  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Behind  me  the  waste  lands  went  rolling  away  un- 
tilled  to  the  brown  Toledo  mountains.  Below,  the 
vigorous  current  of  the  Tagus  brawled  over  its  rocky- 
bed,  and  the  distant  valley  showed  in  its  deep  rich 
green  what  vitality  there  was  in  those  waters  if 
they  were  only  used. 

A  quiet,  as  of  a  plague-stricken  city,  lay  on  To- 
ledo. A  few  mules  wound  up  the  splendid  roads 
with  baskets  of  vegetables.  A  few  listless  fisher- 
men were  preparing  their  lines.  The  chimes  of 
sleepy  bells  floated  softly  out  on  the  morning  air. 
They  seemed  like  the  requiem  of  municipal  life  and 
activity  slain  centuries  ago  by  the  crozier  and  the 
crown. 

Thank  Heaven,  that  double  despotism  is  wounded 
to  death.  As  Chesterfield  predicted,  before  the  first 
muttering  of  the  thunders  of  '89,  "the  trades  of 
king  and  priest  have  lost  half  their  value."  With 
the  decay  of  this  unrighteous  power,  the  false,  un- 
wholesome activity  it  fostered  has  also  disappeared. 
There  must  be  years  of  toil  and  leanness,  years  per- 
haps of  struggle  and  misery,  before  the  new  genuine 
life  of  the  people  springs  up  from  beneath  the  dead 
and  withered  rubbish  of  temporal  and  spiritual 
tyranny.  Freedom  is  an  angel  whose  blessing  is 
gaiiied  by  wrestling. 


THE  ESCOEIAL.  213 


THE  ESCOEIAL 

The  only  battle  in  which  Philip  II.  was  ever 
engaged  was  that  of  St.  Quentin,  and  the  only  part 
he  took  in  that  memorable  fight  was  to  listen  to  the 
thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting  afar  ofiF, 
and  pray  with  great  unction  and  fervor  to  various 
saints  of  his  acquaintance  and  particularly  to  St. 
Lawrence  of  the  Gridiron,  who,  being  the  celestial 
ofi&cer  of  the  day,  was  supposed  to  have  unlimited 
authority,  and  to  whom  he  was  therefore  profuse 
in  vows.  While  Egmont  and  his  stout  Flemings 
were  capturing  the  Constable  Montmorency  and 
cutting  his  army  in  pieces,  this  young  and  chival- 
rous monarch  was  beating  his  breast  and  pattering 
his  panic-stricken  prayers.  As  soon  as  the  victory 
was  won,  however,  he  lost  his  nervousness,  and 
divided  the  entire  credit  of  it  between  himself  and 
his  saints.  He  had  his  picture  painted  in  full  armor, 
as  he  appeared  that  day,  and  sent  it  to  his  doting 
spouse.  Bloody  Mary  of  England.  He  even  thought 
he  had  gained  glory  enough,  and  while  his  father, 
the  Emperor-Monk,  was  fiercely  asking  the  messen- 
ger who  brought  the  news  of  victory  to  Yuste,  "  Is 
my  son  at  Paris  ? "  the  prudent  Philip  was  making 


214  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

a  treaty  of  peace,  by  which  his  son  Don  Carlos  was 
to  marry  the  Princess  Elizabeth  of  France.  But 
Mary  obligingly  died  at  this  moment,  and  the 
stricken  widower  thought  he  needed  consolation 
more  than  his  boy,  and  so  married  the  pretty  prin- 
cess himself. 

He  always  prided  himself  greatly  on  the  battle 
of  St.  Quentin,  and  probably  soon  came  to  be- 
lieve he  had  done  yeoman  service  there.  The  child- 
like credulity  of  the  people  is  a  great  temptation  to 
kings.  It  is  very  likely  that  after  the  coup-d'etat  of 
December,  the  trembling  puppet  who  had  sat  shiver- 
ing over  his  fire  in  the  palace  of  the  Elys^e  while 
Momy  and  Fleury  and  St.  Amaud  and  the  rest  of 
the  cool  gamblers  were  playing  their  last  desperate 
stake  on  that  fatal  night,  really  persuaded  himself 
that  the  work  was  his,  and  that  he  had  saved  soci- 
ety. That  the  fly  should  imagine  he  is  moving  the 
coach  is  natural  enough ;  but  that  the  horses,  and 
the  wooden  lumbering  machine,  and  the  passen- 
gers should  take  it  for  granted  that  the  light  gild- 
ed insect  is  carrying  them  all,  —  there  is  the  true 
miracle. 

We  must  confess  to  a  special  fancy  for  Philip  II. 
He  W4S  so  true  a  king,  so  vain,  so  superstitious,  so 
mean  and  cruel,  it  is  probable  so  great  a  king  never 
lived.  Nothing  could  be  more  royal  than  the  way 
he  distributed  his  .gratitude  for  the  victory  on  St 
Lawrence's  day.    To  Count  Egmont,  whose  splendid 


THE  ESCORT AL.     •  215 

courage  ??nd  loyalty  gained  him  the  battle,  he  gave 
ignominy  and  death  on  the  scaffold ;  and  to  exhibit 
a  gratitude  to  a  myth  which  he  was  too  mean  to 
feel  to  a  man,  he  built  to  San  Lorenzo  that  stupen- 
dous mass  of  granite  which  is  to-day  the  visible 
demonstration  of  the  might  and  the  weakness  of 
Philip  and  his  age.  ^ 

He  called  it  the  Monastery  of  San  Lorenzo  el  ' 
Eeal,  but  the  nomenclature  of  the  great  has  no 
authority  with  the  people.  It  was  built  on  a  site 
once  covered  with  cinder-heaps  from  a  long  aban- 
doned iron-mine,  and  so  it  was  called  in  common 
speech  the  Escorial.  The  royal  seat  of  San  Ildefon- 
so  can  gain  from  the  general  no  higher  name  than 
La  Granja,  the  Farm.  The  great  palace  of  Catha- 
rine de  Medici,  the  home  of  three  dynasties,  is 
simply  the  Tuileries,  the  Tile-fields.  You  cannot 
make  people  call  the  White  House  the  Executive 
Mansion.  A  merchant  named  Pitti  built  a  pal- 
ace in  Florence,  and  though  kings  and  grand-dukes 
have  inhabited  it  since,  it  is  still  the  Pitti.  There 
is  nothing  so  democratic  as  language.  You  may 
alter  a  name  by  trick  when  force  is  unavailing.  A 
noble  lord  in  Segovia.,  following  the  custom  of  the 
good  old  times,  once  murdered  a  Jew,  and  stole  his 
house.  It  was  a  pretty  "residence,  but  the  skeleton 
in  his  closet  was  that  the  stupid  commons  would 
not  caU  it  anything  but  "the  Jew's  house."  He  [ 
killed  a  few  of  them  for  it,  but  that  did  not  serve. 


216  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

At  last,  by  advice  of  his  confessor,  he  had  the  fac^ade 
ornamented  with  projecting  knobs  of  stucco,  and  the 
work  was  done.  It  is  called  to  this  day  "  the  knobby 
house." 

The  conscience  of  Philip  did  not  permit  a  long 
delay  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  vow.  Charles 
V.  had  charged  him  in  his  will  to  build  a  mauso- 
leum for  the  kings  of  the  Austrian  race.  He  bound 
the  two  obligations  in  one,  and  added  a  third  desti- 
nation to  the  enormous  pile  he  contemplated.  It 
should  "be  a  palace  as  well  as  a  monastery  and  a 
royal  charnel-house.  He  chose  the  most  appropriate 
spot  in  Spain  for  the  erection  of  the  most  cheerless 
monument  in  existence.  He  had  fixed  his  capital 
at  Madrid  because  it  was  the  dreariest  town  in 
Spain,  and  to  envelop  himself  in  a  still  profounder 
desolation,  he  built  the  Escorial  out  of  sight  of  the 
city,  on  a  bleak,  bare  hillside,  swept  by  the  glacial 
gales  of  the  Guadarrama,  parched  by  the  vertical  suns 
of  summer,  and  cursed  at  all  seasons  with  the  curse 
of  barrenness.  Before  it  towers  the  great  chain  of 
mountains  separating  Old  and  New  Castile.  Behind 
it  the  chilled  winds  sweep  down  to  the  Madrid 
plateau,  over  rocky  hillocks  and  involved  ravines,  — 
a  scene  in  which  probably  no  man  ever  took  pleas- 
ure except  the  royal  recluse  who  chose  it  for  his 
home. 

John  Baptist  of  Toledo  laid  the  corner-stone  on 
an  April  day  of  1563,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1584 


THE  ESCORIAL.  217 

John  of  Herrera  looked  upon  the  finished  work,  so 
vast  and  so  gloomy  that  it  lay  like  an  incubus  upon 
the  breast  of  earth.  It  is  a  parallelogram  measuring 
from  north  to  south  seven  hundred  and  forty-four 
feet,  and  five  hundred  and  eighty  feet  from  east  to 
west.  It  is  built,  by  order  of  the  fantastic  bigot,  in 
the  form  of  St.  Lawrence's  gridiron,  the  courts  rep- 
resenting the  interstices  of  the  bars,  and  the  towers 
at  the  corners  sticking  helpless  in  the  air  like  the 
legs  of  the  supine  implement.  It  is  composed  of  a 
clean  gray  granite,  chiefly  in  the  Doric  order,  with 
a  severity  of  facade  that  degenerates  into  poverty, 
and  defrauds  the  building  of  the  effect  its  great  bulk 
merits.  The  sheer  monotonous  walls  are  pierced 
with  eleven  thousand  windows,  which,  though  reaUy 
large  enough  for  the  rooms,  seem  on  that  stupendous 
surface  to  shrink  into  musketry  loop-holes.  In  the 
centre  of  the  parallelogram  stands  the  great  church, 
surmounted  by  its  soaring  dome.  All  around  the 
principal  building  is  stretched  a  circumscribing 
line  of  convents,  in  the  same  style  of  doleful  yel- 
lowish-gray uniformity,  so  endless  in  extent  that 
the  inmates  might  easily  despair  of  any  world  be- 
yond them. 

There  are  few  scenes  in  the  world  so  depressing 
as  that  which  greets  you  as  you  enter  into  the  wide 
court  before  the  church,  called  El  Templo.  You  are 
shut  finally  in  by  these  iron-gray  walls.  The  out- 
side day  has  given  you  up.     Your  feet  slip  on  the 

10 


218  CASTILTAN  DAYS. 

damp  flags.  An  unhealthy  fungus  tinges  the  humid 
corners  with  a  pallid  green.  You  look  in  vain  for 
any  trace  of  human  sympathy  in  those  blank  walls 
and  that  severe  faqade.  There  is  a  dismal  attempt 
in  that  direction  in  the  gilded  garments  and  the 
painted  faces  of  the  colossal  prophets  and  kings 
that  are  perched  above  the  lofty  doors.  But  they 
do  not  comfort  you ;  they  are  tinselled  stones,  not 
statues. 

Entering  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  and  looking 
up,  you  observe  with  a  sort  of  horror  that  the  ceil- 
ing is  of  massive  granite  and  flat.  The  sacristan 
has  a  story  that  when  Philip  saw  this  ceiling,  which 
forms  the  floor  of  the  high  choir,  he  remonstrated 
against  it  as  too  audacious,  and  insisted  on  a  strong 
pillar  being  built  to  support  it.  The  architect  com- 
plied, but  when  Philip  came  to  see  the  improve- 
ment he  burst  into  lamentation,  as  the  enormous 
column  destroyed  the  effect  of  the  great  altar.  The 
canny  architect,  who  had  built  the  pillar  of  paste- 
board, removed  it  with  a  touch,  and  his  Majesty  was 
comforted.  Walking  forward  to  the  edge  of  this 
shadowy  vestibule,  you  recognize  the  skill  and 
taste  which  presided  at  this  unique  and  intelligent 
arrangement  of  the  choir.  If  left,  as  usual,  in  the 
body  of  the  church,  it  would  have  seriously  im- 
paired that  solemn  and  simple  grandeur  which  dis- 
tinguishes this  above  all  other  temples.  There  is 
nothing  to  break  the  effect  of  the  three  great  naves, 


THE   ESCORIAL.  219 

divided  by  immense  square-clustered  columns,  and 
surmounted  by  the  vast  dome  that  rises  with  all 
the  easy  majesty  of  a  mountain  more  than  three 
hundred  feet  from  the  decent  black  and  white  pave- 
ment. I  know  of  nothing  so  simple  and  so  im- 
posing as  this  royal  chapel,  built  purely  for  the 
glory  of  God  and  with  no  thought  of  mercy  or  con- 
solation for  human  infirmity.  The  frescos  of  Luca 
Giordano  show  the  attempt  of  a  later  and  degenerate 
age  to  enliven  with  form  and  color  the  sombre  dig- 
nity of  this  faultless  pile.  But  there  is  something 
in  the  blue  and  vapory  pictures  which  shows  that 
even  the  unabashed  Luca  was  not  free  from  the  im- 
pressive influence  of  the  Escorial. 

A  flight  of  veined  marble  steps  leads  to  the  beauti- 
ful retable  of  the  high  altar.  The  screen,  over 
ninety  feet  high,  cost  the  Milanese  Trezzo  seven, 
years  of  labor.  The  pictures  illustrative  of  the  life 
of  our  Lord  are  by  Tibaldi  and  Zuccaro.  The  gilt 
bronze  tabernacle  of  Trezzo  and  Herrera,  which  has 
been  likened  with  the  doors  of  the  Baptistery  of 
Florence  as  worthy  to  figure  in  the  architecture  of 
heaven,  no  longer  exists.  It  furnished  a  half-hour's 
amusement  to  the  soldiers  of  France.  On  either 
side  of  the  high  altar  are  the  oratories  of  the  royal 
family,  and  above  them  are  the  kneeling  effigies  of 
Charles,  with  his  wife,  daughter,  and  sisters,  and 
Philip  with  his  successive  harem  of  wives.  One  of 
the  few  luxuries  this  fierce  bigot  allowed  himself 


r 


220  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

was  that  of  a  new  widowhood  every  few  yeara 
There  are  forty  other  altars  with  pictures  good  and 
bad.  The  best  are  by  the  wonderful  deaf-mute, 
Navarrete,  of  Logrono,  and  by  Sanchez  Coello,  the 
favorite  of  Philip. 

To  the  right  of  the  high  altar  in  the  transept  you 
will  find,  if  your  tastes,  unlike  Miss  Eiderhood's, 
run  in  a  bony  direction,  the  most  remarkable  Eeli- 
quary  in  the  world.  With  the  exception  perhaps 
of  Cuvier,  Philip  could  see  more  in  a  bone  than 
any  man  who  ever  lived.  In  his  long  life  of  os- 
seous enthusiasm  he  collected  seven  thousand  four 
hundred  and  twenty-one  genuine  relics,  —  whole 
skeletons,  odd  shins,  teeth,  toe-nails,  and  skulls  of 
martyrs,  —  sometimes  by  a  miracle  of  special  grace 
getting  duplicate  skeletons  of  the  same  saint.  Thfe 
prime  jewels  of  this  royal  collection  are  the  grilled 
bones  of  San  Lorenzo  himself,  bearing  dim  traces 
of  his  sacred  gridiron. 

The  sacristan  will  show  you  also  the  retable  of  the 
miraculous  wafer,  which  bled  when  trampled  on  by 
Protestant  heels  at  Gorcum  in  1525.  This  has  al- 
ways been  one  of  the  chief  treasures  of  the  Spanish 
crown.  The  devil-haunted  idiot  Charles  II.  made 
a  sort  of  idol  of  it,  building  it  this  superb  altar, 
consecrated  "in  this  miracle  of  earth  to  the  miracle 
of  heaven."  When  the  atheist  Frenchmen  sacked 
the  Escorial  and  stripped  it  of  silver  and  gold,  the 
pious  monks  thought  most  of  hiding  this  wonderful 


THE  ESCORIAL.  221 

wafer,  and  when  the  storm  passed  by,  the  booby 
Ferdinand  VII.  restored  it  with  much  burning  of 
candles,  swinging  of  censers,  and  chiming  of  beUs. 
Worthless  as  it  is,  it  has  done  one  good  work  in 
the  world.  It  inspired  the  altar-picture  of  Claudio 
Coello,  the  last  best  work  of  the  last  of  the  great 
school  of  Spanish  painters.  He  finished  it  just  be- 
fore he  died  of  shame  and  grief  at  seeing  Giordano, 
the  nimble  Neapolitan,  emptying  his  buckets  of 
paint  on  the  ceiling  of  the  grand  staircase,  where  St. 
Lawrence  and  an  army  of  martyrs  go  sailing  with  a 

fair  wind  into  glory. 

The  great  days  of  art  in  the  Escorial  are  gone. 
Once  in  every  nook  and  corner  it  concealed  treas- 
ures of  beauty  that  the  world  had  nearly  forgotten. 
The  Perla  of  Eaphael  hung  in  the  dark  sacristy. 
The  Cena  of  Titian  dropped  to  pieces  in  the  re- 
fectory. The  Gloria,  which  had  sunk  into  eclipse 
on  the  death  of  Charles  V.,  was  hidden  here  among 
unappreciative  monks.  But  on  the  secularization 
of  the  monasteries,  these  superb  canvases  went  to 
swell  the  riches  of  the  Eoyal  Museum.  There  are 
still  enough  left  here,  however,  to  vindicate  the 
ancient  fame  of  the  collection.  They  are  perhaps 
more  impressive  in  their  beauty  and  loneliness  than 
if  they  were  pranking  among  their  kin  in  the 
glorious  galleries  and  perfect  light  of  that  enchanted 
palace  of  Charles  III.  The  inexhaustible  old  man 
of  Cadora  has  the  Prayer  on  Mount  Olivet,  an  Ecce 


222  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Homo,  an  Adoration  of  the  Magi.  Velazquez  one 
of  Ms  rare  scriptural  pieces,  Jacob  and  his  Chil- 
dren. Tintoretto  is  rather  injured  at  the  Museo  by 
the  number  and  importance  of  his  pictures  left  in 
this  monkish  twilight;  among  them  is  a  lovely 
Esther,  and  a  masterly  Presentation  of  Christ  to 
the  People.  Plenty  of  Giordanos  and  Bassanos 
and  one  or  two  by  El  Greco,  with  his  weird  plague- 
stricken  faces,  all  chalk  and  charcoal. 

A  sense  of  duty  will  take  you  into  the  crypt 
where  the  dead  kings  are  sleeping  in  brass.  This 
mausoleum,  ordered  by  the  great  Charles,  was  slow 
in  finishing.  All  of  his  line  had  a  hand  in  it  down 
to  Philip  IV.,  who  completed  it  and  gathered  in  the 
poor  relics  of  royal  mortality  from  many  graves. 
The  key  of  the  vault  is  the  stone  where  the  priest 
stands  when  he  elevates  the  Host  in  the  temple 
above.  The  vault  is  a  graceful  octagon  about  forty 
feet  high,  with  nearly  the  same  diameter;  the 
flickering  light  of  your  torches  shows  twenty-six 
sarcophagi,  some  occupied  and  some  empty,  filling 
the  niches  of  the  polished  mafble.  On  the  right 
sleep  the  sovereigns,  on  the  left  their  consorts. 
There  is  a  coffin  for  Dona  Isabel  de  Bourbon  among 
the  kings,  and  one  for  her  amiable  and  lady-like 
husband  among  the  queens.  They  were  not  lovely 
in  their  lives,  and  in  their  deaths  they  shall  be 
divided.  The  quaint  old  church-mouse  who  showed 
me  the  crypt  called  my  attention  to  the  cofiin  where 


THE  ESCORIAL.  223 

Maria  Louisa,  wife  of  Charles  IV.,  —  the  lady  who 
so  gallantly  bestrides  her  war-horse,  in  the  uniform 
of  a  colonel,  in  Goya's  picture,  —  coming  down 
those  slippery  steps  with  the  sure  footing  of  feverish 
insanity,  during  a  severe  illness,  scratched  Luisa 
with  the  point  of  her  scissors  and  marked  the 
sarcophagus  for  her  own.  All  there  was  good  of 
her  is  interred  with  her  bones.  Her  frailties  live 
on  in  scandalized  history. 

Twice,  it  is  said,  the  coffin  of  the  Emperor  has 
been  opened  by  curious  hands,  —  by  Philip  IV.,  who 
found  the  corpse  of  his  great  ancestor  intact,  and 
observed  to  the  courtier  at  his  elbow,  "  An  honest 
body,  Don  Louis ! "  and  again  by  the  Ministers  of 
State  and  Fomento  in  the  spring  of  1870,  who 
started  back  aghast  when  the  coffin  lid  was  lifted 
and  disclosed  the  grim  face  of  the  Burgess  of 
Ghent,  just  as  Titian  painted  him,  —  the  keen, 
bold  face  of  a  world-stealer. 

I  do  not  know  if  Philip's  funeral  urn  was  ever 
opened.  He  stayed  above  ground  too  long  as 
it  was,  and  it  is  probable  that  people  have  never 
cared  to  look  upon  his  face  again.  All  that  was 
human  had  died  out  of  him  years  before  his  actual 
demise,  and  death  seemed  not  to  consider  it  worth 
while  to  carry  off  a  vampire.  Go  into  the  little 
apartment  where  his  last  days  were  passed ;  a 
wooden  table  and  book-shelf,  one  arm-chair,  and 
two  stools — the  one  upholstered  with  cloth  for  win- 


224  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

ter,  the  other  with  tin  for  summer  —  on  which  he 
rested  his  gouty  leg,  and  a  low  chair  for  a  secretary, 
—  this  was  all  the  furniture  he  used.  The  rooms 
are  not  larger  than  cupboards,  low  and  dark.  The 
little  oratory  where  he  died  looks  out  upon  the  high 
altar  of  the  Temple.  In  a  living  death,  as  if  by  an 
awful  anticipation  of  the  common  lot  it  was  or- 
dained that  in  the  flesh  he  should  know  corruption, 
he  lay  waiting  his  summons  hourly  for  fifty-three 
days.  What  tremendous  doubts  and  fears  must 
have  assailed  him  in  that  endless  agony  !  He  had 
done  more  for  the  Church  than  any  living  man.  He 
was  the  author  of  that  sublime  utterance  of  uncal- 
culating  bigotry,  "  Better  not  reign  than  reign  over 
heretics."  He  had  pursued  error  with  fire  and 
sword.  He  had  peopled  limbo  with  myriads  of 
rash  thinkers.  He  had  impoverished  his  kingdom 
in  Catholic  wars.  Yet  all  this  had  not  sufficed.  He 
lay  there  like  a  leper  smitten  by  the  hand  of  the 
God  he  had  so  zealously  served.  Even  in  his  mind 
there  was  no  peace.  He  held  in  his  clenched  hand 
his  father's  crucifix,  which  Charles  had  held  in  his 
exultant  death  at  Yuste.  Yet  in  his  waking  hours 
he  was  never  free  from  the  horrible  suggestion  that 
he  had  not  done  enough  for  salvation.  He  would 
start  in  horror  from  a  sleep  that  was  peopled  with 
shapes  from  torment.  Humanity  was  avenged  at 
last* 

So  powerful  is  the  influence  of  a  great  personal* 


THE   ESCORIAL.  225 

ity  that  in  the  Escorial  you  can  think  of  no  one 
but  Philip  IL  He  lived  here  only  fourteen  years, 
but  every  corridor  and  cloister  seems  to  preserve 
the  souvenir  of  his  sombre  and  imperious  genius. 
For  two  and  a  half  centuries  his  feeble  successors 
have  trod  these  granite  halls ;  but  they  flit  through 
your  mind  pale  and  unsubstantial  as  dreams.  The 
only  tradition  they  preserved  of  their  great  descent 
was  their  magnificence  and  their  bigotry.  There 
has  never  been  one  utterance  of  liberty  or  free 
thought  inspired  by  this  haunted  ground.  The 
king  has  always  been  absolute  here,  and  the  monk 
has  been  the  conscience-keeper  of  the  king.  The 
whole  life  of  the  Escorial  has  been  unwholesomely 
pervaded  by  a  flavor  of  holy  water  and  burial 
vaults.  There  was  enough  of  the  repressive  in- 
fluence of  that  savage  Spanish  piety  to  spoil  the 
freshness  and  vigor  of  a  natural  life,  but  not  enough 
to  lead  the  court  and  the  courtiers  to  a  moral  walk 
and  conversation.  It  was  as  profligate  a  court  in 
reality,  with  all  its  masses  and  monks,  as  the  gay 
and  atheist  circle  of  the  Eegent  of  Orleans.  Even 
Philip,  the  Inquisitor  King,  did  not  confine  his 
royal  favor  to  his  series  of  wives.  A  more  reckless 
and  profligate  young  prodigal  than  Don  Carlos,  the 
hope  of  Spain  and  Eome,  it  would  be  hard  to  find 
to-day  at  Mabile  or  Cremome.  But  he  was  a  deeply 
religious  lad  for  all  that,  and  asked  absolution  from 
his  confessors  before  attempting  to  put  in  practice 

10*  o 


226  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

his  intention  of  killing  his  father.  Philip,  fore- 
warned, shut  him  up  until  he  died,  in  an  edifying 
frame  of  mind,  and  then  calmly  superintended  the 
funeral  arrangements  from  a  window  of  the  palace. 
The  same  mingling  of  vice  and  superstition  is  seen 
in  the  lessening  line  down  to  our  day.  The  last 
true  king  of  the  old  school  was  Philip  IV.  Amid 
the  ruins  of  his  tumbling  kingdom  he  lived  royally 
here  among  his  priests  and  his  painters  and  his 
ladies.  There  was  one  jealous  exigency  of  Spanish 
etiquette  that  made  his  favor  fatal.  The  object  of 
his  adoration,  when  his  errant  fancy  strayed  to  an- 
other, must  go  into  a  convent  and  nevermore  be  seen 
of  lesser  men.  Madame  Daunoy,  who  lodged  at  court, 
heard  one  night  an  august  footstep  in  the  hall  and 
a  kingly  rap  on  the  bolted  door  of  a  lady  of  honor. 
But  we  are  happy  to  say  she  heard  also  the  spirited 
reply  from  within,  "May  your  Grace  go  with  God ! 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  nun ! " 

There  is  little  in  these  frivolous  lives  that  is  worth 
knowing,  —  the  long  inglorious  reigns  of  the  dwin- 
dling Austrians  and  the  parody  of  greater  days 
played  by  the  scions  of  Bourbon,  relieved  for  a  few 
creditable  years  by  the  heroic  struggle  of  Charles 
III.  against  the  hopeless  decadence.  You  may  walk 
for  an  hour  through  the  dismal  line  of  drawing- 
rooms  in  the  cheerless  palace  that  forms  the  grid- 
iron's handle,  and  not  a  spirit  is  evoked  from 
memory  among  aU  the  tapestry  and  panelling  and 
gilding. 


THE  ESCORIAL.  227 

The  only  cheerful  room  in  this  granite  wilderness 
is  the  Library,  still  in  good  and  careful  keeping.  A 
long,  beautiful  room,  two  hundred  feet  of  bookcases, 
and  tasteful  frescos  by  Tibaldi  and  Carducho,  rep- 
resenting the  march  of  the  liberal  sciences.  Most 
of  the  older  folios  are  bound  in  vellum,  with  their 
gilded  edges,  on  which  the  title  is  stamped,  turned 
to  the  front.  A  precious  collection  of  old  books  and 
older  manuscripts,  useless  to  the  world  as  the  hoard 
of  a  miser.  Along  the  waU  are  hung  the  portraits 
of  the  Escorial  kings  and  builders.  The  hall  is 
furnished  with  marble  and  porphyry  tables,  and 
elaborate  glass  cases  display  some  of  the  curiosities 
of  the  library,  —  a  copy  of  the  Gospels  that  be- 
longed to  the  Emperor  Conrad,  the  Suabian  Kurz ; 
a  richly  illuminated  Apocalypse ;  a  gorgeous  missal 
of  Charles  V. ;  a  Greek  Bible,  which  once  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Phoebus's  ancestor  Cantacuzene ;  Persian 
and  Chinese  sacred  books ;  and  a  Koran,  which  is 
said  to  be  the  one  captured  by  Don  Juan  at  Le- 
panto.  Mr.  Ford  says  it  is  spurious;  Mr.  Madoz 
says  it  is  genuine.  The  ladies  with  whom  I  had 
the  happiness  to  visit  the  library  inclined  to  the 
latter  opinion  for  two  very  good  reasons,  —  the  book 
is  a  very  pretty  one,  and  Mr.  Madoz's  head  is  much 
balder  than  Mr.  Ford's. 

Wandering  aimlessly  through  the  frescoed  cloisters 
and  looking  in  at  all  the  open  doors,  over  each  of 
which  a  cunning  little  gridiron  is   inlaid   in  the 


228  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

wood- work,  we  heard  the  startling  and  unexpected 
sound  of  boyish  voices  and  laughter.  We  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  such  agreeable  tumult,  and 
found  the  theatre  of  the  monastery  full  of  young 
students  rehearsing  a  play  for  the  coming  holidays. 
A  clever-looking  priest  was  directing  the  drama, 
and  one  juvenile  Thespis  was  denouncing  tyrants 
and  dying  for  his  country  in  hexameters  of  a  shrill 
treble.  His  friends  were  applauding  more  than 
was  necessary  or  kind,  and  flourishing  their  wooden 
swords  with  much  ferocity  of  action.  All  that  is 
left  of  the  once  extensive  establishment  of  the 
monastery  is  a  boys'  school,  where  some  two  hun- 
dred youths  are  trained  in  the  humanities,  and  a 
college  where  an  almost  equal  number  are  educated 
for  the  priesthood. 

So  depressing  is  the  effect  of  the  Escorial's  gloom 
and  its  memories,  that  when  you  issue  at  last  from 
its  massive  doors,  the  trim  and  terraced  gardens 
seem  gay  and  heartsome,  and  the  bleak  wild  scene 
is  full  of  comfort.  For  here  at  least  there  is  light 
and  air  and  boundless  space.  You  have  emerged 
from  the  twilight  of  the  past  into  the  present  day. 
The  sky  above  you  bends  over  Paris  and  Cheyenne. 
By  this  light  Darwin  is  writing,  and  the  merchants 
are  meeting  in  the  Chicago  Board  of  Trade.  Just 
below  you  winds  the  railway  which  will  take  you 
in  two  hours  to  Madrid,  —  to  the  city  of  Philip  II., 
where  the  nineteenth  century  has  arrived;  where 


THE   ESCORIAL.  229 

there  are  five  Protestant  churches  and  fifteen  hun- 
dred Evangelical  communicants.  Our  young  cru- 
sader, Professor  Knapp,  holds  night  schools  and  day 
schools  and  prayer  meetings,  with  an  active  devo- 
tion, a  practical  and  American  fervor,  that  is  leaven- 
ing a  great  lump  of  apathy  and  death.  These 
Anglo-Saxon  missionaries  have  a  larger  and  more 
tolerant  spirit  oi  jpro]paganda  than  has  been  hitherto 
seen.  They  can  differ  about  the  best  shape  for  the 
cup  and  the  platter,  but  they  use  what  they  find  to 
their  hand.  They  are  giving  a  tangible  direction 
and  purpose  to  the  vague  impulse  of  reform  that 
was  stirring  before  they  came  in  many  devout 
hearts.  A  little  while  longer  of  this  state  of  free- 
dom and  inquiry,  and  the  shock  of  controversy  will 
come,  and  Spain  will  be  brought  to  life. 

Already  the  signs  are  full  of  promise.  The  ancient 
barriers  of  superstition  have  already  given  way  in 
many  places.  A  Protestant  cannot  only  live  in 
Spain,  but,  what  was  once  a  more  important  matter, 
he  can  die  and  be  buried  there.  This  is  one  of  the 
conquests  of  the  Eevolution.  So  delicate  has  been 
the  susceptibility  of  the  Spanish  mind  in  regard  to 
the  pollution  of  its  soil  by  heretic  corpses,  that 
even  Charles  I.  of  England,  when  he  came  a-wooing 
to  Spain,  could  hardly  gain  permission  to  bury  his 
page  by  night  in  the  garden  of  the  Embassy ;  and 
in  later  days  the  Prussian  Minister  was  compelled 
to  smuggle   his  dead   child   out  of  the  kingdom 


230  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

among  his  luggage  to  give  it  Christian  burial 
Even  since  the  days  of  September  the  clergy  has 
fought  manfully  against  giving  sepultilre  to  Protes- 
tants ;  but  Kivero,  Alcalde  of  Madrid  and  President 
of  the  Cortes,  was  not  inclined  to  waste  time  in 
dialectics,  and  sent  a  police  force  to  protect  the 
heretic  funerals  and  to  arrest  any  priest  who  dis- 
turbed them.  There  is  freedom  of  speech  and 
printing.  The  humorous  journals  are  full  of  blas- 
phemous caricatures  that  would  be  impossible  out 
of  a  Catholic  country,  for  superstition  and  blas- 
phemy always  run  in  couples.  It  was  the  Duke  de 
Guise,  commanding  the  Pope's  army  at  Civitella, 
who  cried  in  his  rage  at  a  rain  which  favored  Alva, 
"God  has  turned  Spaniard";  like  Quashee,  who 
burns  his  Fetish  when  the  weather  is  foul.  The 
liberal  Spanish  papers  overflowed  with  wit  at  the 
proclamation  of  Infallibility.  They  announced  that 
his  Holiness  was  now  going  into  the  lottery  busi- 
ness with  brilliant  prospects  of  success ;  that  he 
could  now  tell  what  Father  Manterola  had  done 
with  the  thirty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  Bulls  he 
sold  last  year  and  punctually  neglects  to  account 
for,  and  other  levities  of  the  sort,  which  seemed 
greatly  relished,  and  which  would  have  burned  the 
facetious  author  two  centuries  before,  and  fined  and 
imprisoned  him  before  the  fight  at  xA.lcolea.  The 
Minister  having  charge  of  the  public  instruction 
has  promised  to  present  a  law  for  the  prohibition 


THE  ESCORIAL.  231 

of  dogmatic  doctrine  in  the  national  schools.  The 
law  of  civil  registry  and  civil  marriage,  after  a  des- 
perate struggle  in  the  Cortes,  has  gone  into  opera- 
tion with  general  assent.  There  is  a  large  party 
which  actively  favors  the  entire  separation  of  the 
spiritual  from  the  temporal  power,  making  religion 
voluntary  and  free,  and  breaking  its  long  concu- 
binage with  the  Crown.  The  old  superstition,  it  is 
true,  still  hangs  like  a  malarial  fog  over  Spain.  But 
it  is  invaded  by  flashes  and  rays  of  progress.  It 
cannot  resist  much  longer  the  sunshine  of  this  tol- 
erant age. 

Far  up  the  mountain-side,  in  the  shade  of  a  cluster 
of  chestnuts,  is  a  rude  block  of  stone,  called  the 
"  King's  Chair,"  where  Philip  used  to  sit  in  silent 
revery,  watching  as  from  an  eyry  the  progress  of 
the  enormous  work  below.  If  you  go  there,  you 
wiU  see  the  same  scene  upon  which  his  basilisk 
glance  reposed,  —  in  a  changed  world,  the  same  un- 
changing scene,  —  the  stricken  waste,  the  shaggy 
horror  of  the  mountains,  the  fixed  plain  wrinkled 
like  a  frozen  sea,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  perfect 
picture  the  vast  chill  bulk  of  that  granite  pile,  ris- 
ing cold,  colorless,  and  stupendous,  as  if  carved  from 
an  iceberg  by  the  hand  of  Northern  gnomes.  It  is 
the  palace  of  vanished  royalty,  the  temple  of  a  re- 
ligion which  is  dead.  There  are  kings  and  priests 
stiU,  and  will  be  for  many  coming  years.  But  never 
again  can  a  power  exist  which  shall  rear  to  the  glory 


232  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

of  the  sceptre  and  the  cowl  a  monument  like  this. 
It  is  a  page  of  history  deserving  to  be  well  pon- 
dered, for  it  never  wiU  be  repeated.  The  world 
which  Philip  ruled  from  the  foot  of  the  Guadarrama 
has  passed  away.  A  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
came  in  with  the  thunders  of  1776  and  1789.  There 
will  be  no  more  Pyramids,  no  more  VersaiUes>  no 
more  Escorials.  The  impublished  fiat  has  gone 
forth  that  man  is  worth  more  than  the  glory  of 
princes.  The  better  religion  of  the  future  has  no 
need  of  these  massive  dungeon-temples  of  super- 
stition and  fear.  Yet  there  is  a  store  of  precious 
teachings  in  this  mass  of  stone.  It  is  one  of  the 
results  of  that  mysterious  law  to  which  the  genius 
of  history  has  subjected  the  caprices  of  kings,  to  the 
end  that  we  might  not  be  left  without  a  witness  of 
the  past  for  our  warning  and  example,  —  the  law 
which  induces  a  judged  and  sentenced  dynasty  to 
build  for  posterity  some  monument  of  its  power, 
which  hastens  and  commemorates  its  ruin.  By 
virtue  of  this  law  we  read  on  the  plains  of  Egypt 
the  pride  and  the  faU  of  the  Pharaohs.  •  Before  the 
facade  of  Versailles  we  see  at  a  glance  the  grandeur 
of  the  Capetian  kings  and  the  necessity  of  the  Eev- 
olution.  And  the  most  vivid  picture  of  that  fierce 
and  gloomy  religion  of  the  sixteenth  century,  com- 
pounded of  a  base  alloy  of  worship  for  an  absolute 
king  and  a  vengeful  God,  is  to  be  found  in  this 
colossal  hermitage  in  the  flinty  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Castile. 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  233 


A  MIEACLE  PLAY. 

In  the  windy  month  of  March  a  sudden  gloom 
falls  upon  Madrid,  —  the  reaction  after  the  folU 
gaiete  of  the  Carnival.  The  theatres  are  at  their 
gayest  in  February  until  Prince  Carnival  and  his 
jolly  train  assault  the  town,  and  convert  the  tem- 
ples of  the  drama  into  ball-rooms.  They  have  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  wonderful  expedition  and  despatch 
observed  in  Paris,  where  a  half-hour  is  enough  to 
convert  the  Grand  Opera  into  the  Masked  Ball. 
The  invention  of  this  process  of  flooring  the  or- 
chestra flush  with  the  stage  and  making  a  vast 
dancing-hall  out  of  both  is  due  to  an  ingenious 
courtier  of  the  Eegency,  bearing  the  great  name  of 
De  Bouillon,  who  got  much  credit  and  a  pension  by 
it.  In  Madrid  they  take  the  afternoon  leisurely  to 
the  transformation,  and  the  evening's  performance 
is  of  course  sacrificed.  So  the  sock  and  buskin,  not 
being  adapted  to  the  Cancan,  yielded  with  Febru- 
ary, and  the  theatres  were  closed  finally  on  Ash 
Wednesday. 

Going  by  the  pleasant  little  Theatre  of  Lope  de 
Eueda,  in  the  Calle  BarquiUo,  I  saw  the  office-doors 
open,  the  posters  up,  and  an  unmistakable  air  of 


234  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

animation  among  the  loungers  wlio  mark  with  a 
seal  so  peculiar  the  entrance  of  places  of  amusement. 
Struck  by  this  apparent  levity  in  the  midst  of  the 
general  mortification,  I  went  over  to  look  at  the  bills 
and  found  the  subject  announced  serious  enough  for 
the  most  Lenten  entertainment,  —  Los  Siete  Dolores 
de  Maria,  —  The  Seven  Sorrows  of  Mary,  —  the 
old  mediaeval  Miracle  of  the  Life  of  the  Saviour. 

This  was  bringing  suddenly  home  to  me  the  fact 
that  I  was  really  in  a  Catholic  country.  I  had 
never  thought  of  going  to  Ammergau,  and  so,  when 
reading  of  these  shows,  I  had  entertained  no  more 
hope  of  seeing  one  than  of  assisting  at  an  auto-da- 
fe  or  a  witch-burning.  I  went  to  the  box-office  to 
buy  seats.  But  they  were  all  sold.  The  forestallers 
had  swept  the  board.  I  was  never  able  to  deter- 
mine whether  I  most  pitied  or  despised  these  pests 
of  the  theatre.  Whenever  a  popular  play  is  pre- 
sented, a  dozen  ragged  and  garlic-odorous  vagabonds 
go  early  in  the  day  and  buy  as  many  of  the  best 
places  as  they  can  pay  for.  They  hang  about  the 
door  of  the  theatre  all  day,  and  generally  manage  to 
dispose  of  their  purchases  at  an  advance.  But  it 
happens  very  often  that  they  are  disappointed ;  that 
the  play  does  not  draw,  or  that  the  evening  threatens 
rain,  and  the  Spaniard  is  devoted  to  his  hat.  He 
would  keep  out  of  a  revolution  if  it  rained.  So 
that,  at  the  pleasant  hour  when  the  orchestra  are 
giving  the  last  tweak  to  the  key  of  their  fiddles, 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  235 

you  may  see  these  woe-begone  wretches  rushing 
distractedly  from  the  Piamonte  to  the  Alcala,  offer- 
ing their  tickets  at  a  price  which  falls  rapidly  from 
double  to  even,  and  tumbles  headlong  to  half-price 
at  the  first  note  of  the  opening  overture.  When  I 
see  the  forestaller  luxuriously  basking  at  the  office- 
door  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  scornfully  re- 
fusing to  treat  for  less  than  twice  the  treasurer's 
figures,  I  feel  a  divided  indignation  against  the 
nuisance  and  the  management  that  permits  it.  But 
when  in  the  evening  I  meet  him  haggard  and  fever- 
ish, hawking  his  unsold  places  in  desperate  panic 
on  the  sidewalk,  I  cannot  but  remember  that  prob- 
ably a  half-dozen  dirty  and  tawny  descendants  of 
Pelayo  will  eat  no  beans  to-morrow  for  those  un- 
fortunate tickets,  and  my  wrath  melts,  and  I  buy 
his  crumpled  papers,  moist  with  the  sweat  of  anx- 
iety, and  add  a  slight  propina,  which  I  fear  will  be 
spent  in  Aguardiente  to  calm  his  shattered  nerves. 

This  day  the  sky  looked  threatening,  and  my 
shabby  hidalgo  listened  to  reason,  and  sold  me  my 
places  at  their  price  and  a  petit  verre. 

As  we  entered  in  the  evening  the  play  had  just 
begun.  The  scene  was  the  interior  of  the  Temple 
at  Jerusalem,  rather  well  done,  —  two  ranges  of 
superimposed  porphyry  columns  with  a  good  effect 
of  oblique  perspective,  which  is  very  common  in 
the  Spanish  theatres.  St.  Simeon,  in  a  dress  sus- 
piciously resembling  that  of  the  modern  bishop, 


236  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

was  talking  with  a  fiery  young  Hebrew  who  turns 
out  to  be  Demas,  the  Penitent  Thief,  and  who  is 
destined  to  play  a  very  noticeable  part  in  the  even- 
ing's entertainment.  He  has  received  some  slight 
from  the  government  authorities  and  does  not  pro- 
pose to  submit  to  it.  The  aged  and  cooler-blooded 
Simeon  advises  him  to  do  nothing  rash.  Here  at 
the  very  outset  is  a  most  characteristic  Spanish 
touch.  You  are  expected  to  be  interested  in  Demas, 
and  the  only  crime  which  could  appeal  to  the  sym- 
pathies of  a  Castilian  crowd  would  be  one  com- 
mitted at  the  promptings  of  injured  dignity. 

There  is  a  soft,  gentle  strain  of  music  played 
'pianissimo  by  the  orchestra,  and,  surrounded  by  a 
chorus  of  mothers  and  maidens,  the  Virgin  Mother 
enters  with  the  Divine  Child  in  her  arms.  The  Ma- 
donna is  a  strapping  young  girl  named  Gutierrez,  a 
very  clever  actress ;  and  the  Child  has  been  bought  in 
the  neighboring  toy-shop,  a  most  palpable  and  cynical 
wax-doll.  The  doll  is  handed  to  Simeon,  and  the 
solemn  ceremony  of  the  Presentation  is  performed 
to  fine  and  thoughtful  music.  St.  Joseph  has  come 
in  sheepishly  by  the  flies  with  his  inseparable  staff 
crowned  with  a  garland  of  lilies,  which  remain  mi- 
raculously fresh  during  thirty  years  or  so,  and  kneels 
at  the  altar,  on  the  side  opposite  to  Miss  Gutierrez. 

As  the  music  ceases,  Simeon  starts  as  from  a 
trance  and  predicts  in  a  few  rapid  couplets  the  suf- 
ferings and  the  crucifixion  of  the  child.     Mary  falls 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  237 

overwhelmed  in  the  arms  of  her  attendants,  and 
Simeon  exclaims,  "  Most  blessed  and  most  unfortu- 
nate among  women  !  thy  heart  is  to  be  pierced  with 
Seven  Sorrows,  and  this  is  the  first."  Demas  rushes 
in  and  announces  the  massacre  of  the  innocents, 
concluding  with  the  appropriate  reflection,  "  Perish 
the  kings  !  always  the  murderers  of  the  people." 
This  sentiment  is  so  much  to  the  taste  of  the 
gamins  of  the  Paraiso  that  they  vociferously  de- 
mand an  encore ;  but  the  Eoman  soldiers  come  in 
and  commence  the  pleasing  task  of  prodding  the 
dolls  in  the  arms  of  the  chorus. 

The  next  Act  is  the  Fliglit  into  Egy3)t.  The 
curtain  rises  on  a  rocky  ravine  with  a  tinsel  tor- 
rent in  the  background  and  a  group  of  robbers  on  the 
stage.  Gestas,  the  Impenitent  Thief,  stands  sulky 
and  glum  in  a  corner,  fingering  his  dagger  as  you 
might  be  sure  he  would,  and  informing  himseK  in 
a  growling  soliloquy  that  his  heart  is  consumed 
with  envy  and  hate  because  he  is  not  captain.  The 
captain,  one  Issachar,  comes  in,  a  superbly  hand- 
some young  fellow,  named  Mario,  to  my  thinking 
the  first  comedian  in  Spain,  dressed  in  a  flashy  suit 
of  leopard  hides,  and  announces  the  arrival  of  a 
stranger.  Enters  Demas,  who  says  he  hates  the 
world  and  would  fain  drink  its  foul  blood.  He  is 
made  politely  welcome.  No  !  he  will  be  captain  or 
nothing.  Issachar  laughs  scornfully  and  says  he  is 
in  the  way  of  that  modest  aspiration.     But  Demas 


238  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

speedily  puts  him  out  of  the  way  with  an  Albacete 
knife,  and  becomes  captain,  to  the  profound  dis- 
gust of  the  impenitent  Gestas,  who  exclaims,  just 
as  the  profane  villains  do  nowadays  on  every  well- 
conducted  stage,  "  Damnation  !  foiled  again  ! " 

The  robbers  pick  up  their  idolized  leader  and 
pitch  him  into  the  tinsel  torrent.  This  is  also  ex- 
tremely satisfactory  to  the  wide-awake  young  Arabs 
of  the  cock-loft.  The  bandits  disperse,  and  Demas 
indulges  in  some  fifty  lines  of  rhymed  reflections, 
which  are  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the  Holy 
Family,  hotly  pursued  by  the  soldiery  of  Herod. 
They  stop  under  a  sycamore  tree,  which  instantly, 
by  very  clever  machinery,  bends  down  its  spreading 
branches  and  miraculously  hides  them  from  the 
bloodthirsty  legionaries.  These  pass  on,  and  Demas 
leads  the  saintly  Trio  by  a  secret  pass  over  the  tor- 
rent,—  the  Mother  and  Child  mounted  upon  an 
ass  and  St.  Joseph  trudging  on  behind  with  his  lily- 
decked  staff,  looking  all  as  if  they  were  on  a  short 
leave  of  absence  from  Correggio's  picture-frame. 

Demas  comes  back,  calls  up  his  merrymen,  and 
has  a  battle-royal  with  the  enraged  legionaries,  which 
puts  the  critics  of  the  gallery  into  a  frenzy  of  de- 
light and  assures  the  success  of  the  spectacle.  The 
curtain  falls  in  a  gust  of  applause,  is  stormed  up 
again,  Demas  comes  forward  and  makes  a  neat 
speech,  announcing  the  author.  Que  saiga !  roar 
the  gods,  —  "  Trot  «him  out !  "     A   shabby  young 


A  MIRACLE  PLAY.  239 

cripple  hobbles  to  tbe  front,  leaning  upon  a  crutch, 
his  sallow  face  flushed  with  a  hectic  glow  of  pride 
and  pleasure.  He  also  makes  a  glib  speech,  —  I 
have  never  seen  a  Spaniard  who  could  not",  —  dis- 
claiming all  credit  for  himself,  but  lauding  the 
sublimity  of  the  acting  and  the  perfection  of  the 
scene-painting,  and  saying  that  the  memory  of  this 
unmerited  applause  will  be  forever  engraved  upon 
his  humble  heart. 

Act  Third,  the  Lost  Child,  or  Christ  in  the  Tem- 
ple. The  scene  is  before  the  Temple  on  a  festival 
day,  plenty  of  chorus-girls,  music,  and  flowers. 
Demas  and  the  impenitent  Gestas  and  Barrabas, 
who,  I  was  pleased  to  see,  was  after  all  a  very  good 
sort  of  fellow,  with  no  more  malice  than  you  or  I, 
were  down  in  the  city  on  a  sort  of  lark,  their  leop- 
ard skins  left  in  the  mountains  and  their  daggers 
hid  under  the  natty  costume  of  the  Judaean  dandy 
of  the  period.  Demas  and  Gestas  have  a  quarrel, 
in  which  Gestas  is  rather  roughly  handled,  and  goes 
off  growling  like  every  villain,  qui  se  respecte,  —  "I 
will  have  r-revenge."  Barrabas  proposes  to  go 
around  to  the  cider-cellars,  but  Demas  confides  to 
him  that  he  is  enslaved  by  a  dream  of  a  child, 
who  said  to  him,  "  Follow  me  —  to  Paradise  " ;  that 
he  had  come  down  to  Jerusalem  to  seek  and  find 
the  mysterious  infant  of  his  vision.  The  jovial 
Barrabas  seems  imperfectly  impressed  by  these 
transcendental  fancies,  and  at  this  moment  Mary 


240  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

comes  in  dressed  like  a  Madonna  of  Guide  Eeni, 
and  soon  after  St.  Joseph  and  his  staff.  They  ask 
each  other  where  is  the  Child, —  a  scene  of  alarm  and 
bustle,  which  ends  by  the  door  of  the  Temple  fly- 
ing open  and  discovering,  shrined  in  ineffable  light, 
Jesus  teaching  the  Doctors. 

In  the  Fourth  Act,  Demas  meets  a  beautiful 
woman  by  the  city  gate,  in  the  loose,  graceful  dress 
of  the  Hetairai,  and  the  most  wonderful  luxuriance 
of  black  curls  I  have  ever  seen  falling  in  dense 
masses  to  her  knees.  After  a  conversation  of 
amorous  banter,  he  gives  her  a  golden  chain,  which 
she  assumes,  well  pleased,  and  gives  him  her  name. 
La  Magdalena.  A  motley  crowd  of  street  loafers 
here  rushed  upon  the  scene,  and  I  am  sure  there 
was  no  one  of  Northern  blood  in  the  theatre  that 
did  not  shudder  for  an  instant  at  the  startling  ap- 
parition that  formed  the  central  figure  of  the  group. 
The  world  has  long  ago  agreed  upon  a  typical  face 
and  figure  for  the  Saviour  of  men ;  it  has  been  re- 
peated on  myriads  of  canvases  and  reproduced  in 
thousands  of  statues,  till  there  is  scarcely  a  man 
living  that  does  not  have  the  same  image  of  the 
Eedeemer  in  his  mind.  Well,  that  image  walked 
quietly  upon  the  stage,  so  perfect  in  make-up  that 
you  longed  for  some  error  to  break  the  terrible  vrai- 
semblance.  I  was  really  relieved  when  the  august 
appearance  spoke,  and  I  recognized  the  voice  of  a 
young  actor  named  Morales,  a  clever  light  comedian 
of  the  Bressant  type. 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  241 

The  Magdalene  is  soon  converted  by  the  preach- 
ing of  the  Nazarene  Prophet,  and  the  scene  closes 
by  the  triumphant  entry  into  Jerusalem  amid  the 
waving  of  palm-branches,  the  strewing  of  flowers, 
and  "  sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds."  The 
pathetic  and  sublime  lament,  "Jerusalem!  Jeru- 
salem! thou  that  killest  the  prophets!"  was  de- 
livered with  great  feeling  and  power. 

The  next  Act  brings  us  before  the  Judgment-Seat 
of  Pontius  Pilate.  This  act  is  almost  solely  hor- 
rible. The  Magdalene  in  her  garb  of  penitence 
comes  in  to  beg  the  release  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
Pontius,  who  is  represented  as  a  gallant  old  gentle- 
man, says  he  can  refuse  nothing  to  a  lady.  The 
prisoner  is  dragged  in  by  two  ferocious  ruffians,  who 
beat  and  buffet  him  with  absurd  and  exaggerated 
violence.  There  is  nothing  more  hideous  than  the 
awful  concreteness  of  this  show,  —  the  naked  help- 
lessness of  the  prisoner,  his  horrible,  cringing,  over- 
done humility,  the  coarse  kicking  and  cuffing  of  the 
deputy-sheriffs.  The  Prophet  is  stripped  and 
scourged  at  the  Pillar  until  he  drops  from  ex- 
haustion. He  is  dragged  anew  before  Pilate  and 
examined,  but  his  only  word  is,  "  Thou  hast  said." 
The  scene  lasts  nearly  an  hour.  The  theatre  was 
full  of  sobbing  women  and  children.  At  every 
fresh  brutality  I  could  hear  the  weeping  spectators 
say,  "  Pobre  Jesus  ! "  "  How  wicked  they  are  ! " 
The  bulk  of  the  audience  was  of  people  who  do  not 
11  p 


242  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

often  go  to  theatres.  They  looked  upon  the  revolt- 
ing scene  as  a  real  and  living  fact.  One  hard- 
featured  man  near  me  clenched  his  fists  and  cursed 
the  cruel  guards.  A  pale,  delicate-featured  girl 
who  was  leaning  out  of  her  box  with  her  brown 
eyes,  dilated  with  horror,  fixed  upon  the  scene,  sud- 
denly shrieked  as  a  Eoman  soldier  struck  the  un- 
resisting Saviour,  and  fell  back  fainting  in  the  arms 
of  her  friends. 

The  Nazarene  Prophet  was  condemned  at  last. 
Gestas  gives  evidence  against  him,  and  also  delivers 
Demas  to  the  law,  but  is  himself  denounced,  and 
shares  their  sentence.  The  crowd  howled  with 
exultation,  and  Pilate  washed  his  hands  in  im- 
potent rage  and  remorse.  The  curtain  came  down 
leaving  the  uncultivated  portion  of  the  audience  in 
the  frame  of  mind  in  which  their  ancestors  a  few 
centuries  earlier  would  have  gone  from  the  theatre 
determined  to  serve  God  and  relieve  their  feelings 
by  killing  the  first  Jew  they  could  find.  The 
diversion  was  all  the  better,  because  safer,  if  they 
happened  to  the  good  luck  of  meeting  a  Hebrew 
woman  or  child. 

The  Calle  de  Amargura  —  the  Street  of  Bitterness 
—  was  the  next  scene.  First  came  a  long  procession 
of  ofl&cial  Eomans,  —  lictors  and  swordsmen,  and 
the  heralds  announcing  the  day's  business.  Demas 
appears,  dragged  along  with  vicious  jerks  to  execu- 
tion.    The   Saviour   follows,  and   falls   under   the 


A   MIRACLE   PLAY.  243 

weight  of  the  cross  before  the  footlights.  Another 
long  and  dreary  scene  takes  place,  of  brutalities 
from  the  Roman  soldiers,  the  ringleader  of  whom 
is  a  sanguinary  Andalusian  ingeniously  encased  in 
a  tin  barrel,  a  hundred  lines  of  rhymed  sorrow  from 
the  Madonna,  and  a  most  curious  scene  of  the  Wan- 
dering Jew.  This  worthy,  who  in  defiance  of  tra- 
dition is  called  Samuel,  is  sitting  in  his  doorway 
watching  the  show,  when  the  suffering  Christ  begs 
permission  to  rest  a  moment  on  his  threshold.  He 
says  churlishly,  Anda !  —  " Begone  ! "  "I  will  go, 
but  thou  shalt  go  forever  until  I  come."  The  Jew's 
feet  begin  to  twitch  convulsively,  as  if  pulled  from 
under  him.  He  struggles  for  a  moment,  and  at  last 
is  carried  off  by  his  legs,  which  are  moved  like 
those  of  the  walking  dolls  with  the  Greek  names. 
This  odd  tradition,  so  utterly  in  contradiction  with 
the  picture  the  Scriptures  give  us  of  the  meek  dig- 
nity with  which  the  Redeemer  forgave  all  personal 
injuries,  has  taken  a  singular  hold  upon  the  imagi- 
nations of  all  peoples.  Under  varying  names, — 
Ahasuerus,  Salathiel,  le  Juif  Errant,  der  ewige  Jude, 
—  his  story  is  the  delight  and  edification  of  many 
lands ;  and  I  have  met  some  worthy  people  who 
stoutly  insisted  that  they  had  read  it  in  the 
Bible. 

The  sinister  procession  moves  on.  The  audience 
which  had  been  somewhat  cheered  by  the  prompt 
and  picturesque  punishment  inflicted  upon  the  inhos- 


244  CASTILTAN  DAYS. 

pitable  Samuel,  was  still  further  exhilarated  by  the 
spectacle  of  the  impenitent  traitor  Gestas,  stagger- 
ing imder  an  enormous  cross,  his  eyes  and  teeth 
glaring  with  abject  fear,  with  an  athletic  Eoman 
haling  him  up  to  Calvary  with  a  new  hempen 
halter. 

A  long  intermission  followed,  devoted  to  putting 
babies  to  sleep,  —  for  there  were  hundreds  of  them, 
wide-eyed  and  strong-lunged, — to  smoking  the  hasty 
cigarette,  to  discussing  the  next  combination  of 
Prim  or  the  last  scandal  in  the  gay  world.  The 
carpenters  were  busy  behind  the  scenes  building  the 
mountain.  When  the  curtain  rose,  it  was  worth 
waiting  for.  It  was  an  admirable  scene.  A  gen- 
uine Spanish  mountain,  great  humpy  undulations 
of  rock  and  sand,  gigantic  cacti  for  all  vegetation,  a 
lurid  sky  behind,  but  not  over-colored.  A  group  of 
Eoman  soldiers  in  the  foreground,  in  the  rear  the 
hill,  and  the  executioners  busily  employed  in  nail- 
ing the  three  victims  to  their  crosses.  Demas  was 
fastened  first ;  then  Gestas,  who,  when  undressed  for 
execution,  was  a  superb  model  of  a  youthful  Her- 
cules. But  the  third  cross  still  lay  on  the  ground ; 
the  hammering  and  disputing  and  coming  and  going 
were  horribly  lifelike  and  real. 

At  last  the  victim  is  securely  nailed  to  the  wood, 
and  the  cross  is  slowly  and  clumsily  lifted  and  falls 
with  a  shock  into  its  socket.  The  soldiers  huzza, 
the  fiend  in  the  tin  barrel  and  another  in  a  tin  hat 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  245 

come  down  to  the  foot-lights  and  throw  dice  for  the 
raiment.  "  Caramba  !  curse  my  luck !  "  says  our 
friend  in  the  tin  case,  and  the  other  walks  off  with 
the  vestment. 

The  Passion  begins,  and  lasts  an  interminable 
time.  The  grouping  is  admirable,  every  shifting  of 
the  crowd  in  the  foreground  produces  a  new  and 
finished  picture,  with  always  the  same  background 
of  the  three  high  crosses  and  their  agonizing  bur- 
dens against  that  lurid  sky.  The  impenitent  Gestas 
curses  and  dies ;  the  penitent  Demas  believes  and 
receives  eternal  rest.  The  Holy  Women  come  in 
and  group  themselves  in  picturesque  despair  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross.  The  awful  drama  goes  on  with 
no  detail  omitted,  —  the  thirst,  the  sponge  dipped 
in  vinegar,  the  cry  of  desolation,  the  spear-thrust, 
the  giving  up  of  the  ghost.  The  stage-lights  are 
lowered.  A  thick  darkness  —  of  crape  —  comes 
down  over  the  sky.  Horror  falls  on  the  impious 
multitude,  and  the  scene  is  deserted  save  by  the 
faithful 

The  closing  act  opens  with  a  fine  effect  of  moon 
and  stars.  "  Que  linda  luna ! "  sighed  a  young 
woman  beside  me,  drying  her  tears,  comforted  by 
the  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  central  cross  is  bathed 
in  the  full  splendor  that  is  denied  the  others.  Joseph 
of  Abarimathea  (as  he  is  here  called)  comes  in  with 
ladders  and  winding-sheets,  and  the  dead  Christ  is 
taken  from  the  cross.     The  Descent  is  managed  with 


246  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

singular  skill  and  genuine  artistic  feeling.  The 
principal  actor,  who  has  been  suspended  for  an  hour 
in  a  most  painful  and  constrained  posture,  has  a 
corpse-like  rigidity  and  numbness.  There  is  one 
moment  when  you  can  almost  imagine  yourself  in 
Antwerp,  looking  at  that  sublimest  work  of  Eubens. 
The  Entombment  ends,  and  the  last  tableau  is  of  the 
Mater  Dolorosa  in  the  Solitude.  I  have  rarely  seen 
an  effect  so  simple,  and  yet  so  striking,  —  the  dark- 
ened stage,  the  softened  moonlight,  the  now  Holy 
Rood  spectral  and  tall  against  the  starry  sky ;  and 
the  Dolorous  Mother,  alone  in  her  sublime  sorrow, 
as  she  will  be  worshipped  and  revered  for  coming 

aeons. 

«  4t  «  #  * 

A  curious  observation  is  made  by  all  foreigners, 
of  the  absence  of  the  Apostles  from  the  drama. 
They  appear  from  time  to  time,  but  merely  as  super- 
numeraries. One  would  think  that  the  character 
of  Judas  was  especially  fitted  for  dramatic  use.  I 
spoke  of  this  to  a  friend,  and  he  said  that  formerly 
tlie  false  Apostle  was  introduced  in  the  play,  but  that 
the  sight  of  him  so  fired  the  Spanish  heart  that  not 
only  his  life,  but  the  success  of  the  piece  was  endan- 
gered. This  reminds  one  of  Mr.  A.  Ward's  account 
of  a  high-handed  outrage  at  "  Utiky,"  where  a  young 
gentleman  of  good  family  stove  in  the  wax  head  of 
"  Jewdas  Iscarrit,"  characterizing  him  at  the  same 
time  as  a  "  pewserlanimous  cuss." 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  247 

"  To  see  these  Mysteries  in  their  glory,"  continued 
my  friend,  "  you  should  go  into  the  small  towns  in 
the  provinces,  uncontaniinated  with  railroads  or 
unbelief.  There  they  last  several  days.  The  stage 
is  the  town,  the  Temple  scene  takes  place  in  the 
church,  the  Judgment  at  the  city  hall,  and  the  pro- 
cession of  the  Via  Crucis  moves  through  all  the 
principal  streets.  The  leading  roles  are  no  joke,  — 
carrying  fifty  kilos  of  wood  over  the  mud  and  cob- 
ble-stones for  half  a  day.  The  Judas  or  Gestas  must 
be  paid  double  for  the  kicks  and  cuffs  he  gets  from 
tender-hearted  spectators,  —  the  curses  he  accepts 
willingly  as  a  tribute  to  his  dramatic  ability.  His 
proudest  boast  in  the  evening  is  Querian  matarme, 
— '  They  wanted  to  kill  me ! '  I  once  saw  the  hero 
of  the  drama  stop  before  a  wine-shop,  sweating  like 
rain,  and  positively  swear  by  the  life  of  the  Devil, 
he  would  not  carry  his  gallows  a  step  farther  imless 
he  had  a  drink.  They  brought  him  a  bottle  of 
Valdepenas,  and  he  drained  it  before  resuming  his 
way  to  Golgotha.  Some  of  us  laughed  thoughtlessly, 
and  narrowly  escaped  the  knives  of  the  orthodox 
ruffians  who  followed  the  procession." 

The  most  striking  fact  in  this  species  of  exhibi- 
tion is  the  evident  and  unquestioning  faith  of  the 
audience.  To  all  foreigners  the  show  is  at  first 
shocking  and  then  tedious ;  to  the  good  people  of 
Madrid  it  is  a  sermon,  full  of  absolute  truth  and 
vivid   reality.     The   class  of  persons  who   attend 


248  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

these  spectacles  is  very  different  from  that  which 
you  find  at  the  Eoyal  Theatre  or  the  Comic  Opera. 
They  are  sober,  serious  bourgeois,  who  mind  their 
shops  and  go  to  mass  regularly,  and  who  come  to 
the  theatre  only  in  Lent,  when  the  gay  world  stays 
away.  They  would  not  dream  of  such  an  indiscre- 
tion as  reading  the  Bible.  Their  doctrinal  education 
consists  of  their  catechism,  the  sermons  of  the 
curas,  and  the  traditions  of  the  Church.  The 
miracle  of  St.  Veronica,  who,  wiping  the  brow  of 
the  Saviour  in  the  Street  of  Bitterness,  finds  his 
portrait  on  her  handkerchief,  is  to  them  as  real  and 
reverend  as  if  it  were  related  by  the  Evangelist. 
The  spirit  of  inquiry  which  has  broken  so  many 
idols,  and  opened  such  new  vistas  of  thought  for 
the  minds  of  all  the  world,  is  as  yet  a  stranger  to 
Spain.  It  is  the  blind  and  fatal  boast  of  even  the 
best  of  Spaniards,  that  their  country  is  a  unit  in 
religious  faith.  NuTica  se  disputd  en  Uspana, — 
"  There  has  never  been  any  discussion  in  Spain,"  — 
exclaims  proudly  £in  eminent  Spanish  writer. 

Spectacles  like  that  which  we  have  just  seen 
were  one  of  the  elements  which  in  a  barbarous  and 
unenlightened  age  contributed  strongly  to  the  con- 
solidation of  that  unthinking  and  ardent  faith  which 
has  fused  the  nation  into  one  torpid  and  homogene- 
ous mass  of  superstition.  No  better  means  could 
have  been  devised  for  the  purpose.  Leaving  out  of 
view  the  sublime  teachings  of  the  large  and  toler- 


A  MIRACLE   PLAY.  249 

ant  morality  of  Jesus,  the  clergy  made  his  person- 
ality the  sole  object  of  worship  and  reverence.  By 
dwelling  almost  exclusively  upon  the  story  of  his 
sufferings,  they  excited  the  emotional  nature  of  the 
ignorant,  and  left  their  intellects  untouched  and 
dormant.  They  aimed  to  arouse  their  sympathies, 
and  when  that  was  done^  to  turn  their  natural 
resentment  against  those  whom  the  Church  consid-  -^ 
ered  dangerous.  To  the  inflamed  and  excited  wor-  j' 
shippers,  a  heretic  was  the  enemy  of  the  crucified 
Saviour,  a  Jew  was  his  murderer,  a  Moor  was 
his  re  viler.  A  .Protestant  wore  to  their  bloodshot 
eyes  the  semblance  of  the  torturer  who  had  mocked 
and  scourged  the  meek  Kedeemer,  who  had  crowned 
his  guileless  head  with  thorns,  who  had  pierced  and 
slain  him.  The  rack,  the  gibbet,  and  the  stake 
were  not  enough  to  glut  the  pious  hate  this  priestly 
trickery  inspired.  It  was  not  enough  that  the 
doubter's  life  should  go  out  in  the  blaze  of  the 
crackling  fagots,  but  it  must  be  loaded  in  eternity 
with  the  curses  of  the  faithful. 

Is  there  not  food  for  earnest  thought  in  the  fact 
that  faith  in  Christ,  which  led  the  Puritans  across 
the  sea  to  found  the  purest  social  and  political  sys- 
tem which  the  wit  of  man  has  yet  evolved  from  the 
tangled  problems  of  time,  has  dragged  this  great 
Spanish  people  down  to  a  depth  of  hopeless  apathy, 
from  which  it  may  take  long  years  of  civil  tutnult 
to  raise  them  ?     May  we  not  find  the  explanation 


250  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

of  this  strange  phenomenon  in  the  contrast  of 
Catholic  unity  with  Protestant  diversity  ?  "  Thou 
that  killest  the  prophets  !  "  —  the  system  to  which 
this  apostrophe  can  be  applied  is  doomed.  And  it 
.(inatters  little  who  the  prophets  may  be. 


AN  EVENING  WITH   GHOSTS  251 


AN"  EVENING  WITH  GHOSTS. 

One  of  the  first  results  of  the  Eevolution  of  Sep- 
tember is  a  feeling  of  freedom  in  the  investigation 
of  spiritual  phenomena.  Up  to  1868  the  mind  of 
Spain  was  under  too  perfect  discipline  to  meddle 
overmuch  with  forbidden  things.  The  Spaniard  is 
naturally  credulous  and  superstitious,  and  therefore 
one  would  have  expected  that  the  modern  rapping 
gospel  would  have  made  its  earliest  inroads  in  this 
country.  But  the  priests  checked  it  on  its  first  ap- 
pearance, by  the  appliances  of  the  confessional,  as 
thoroughly  as  Protestantism  was  extinguished  three 
hundred  years  ago,  when  the  rest  of  Europe  was 
ablaze  with  it.  A  clever  lady  of  the  court  told  me 
of  an  exciting  evening  at  Aranjuez,  some  years  ago, 
when  the  wood  talked  and  the  tables  skipped  like 
rams,  to  the  amazement  of  the  high-born  circle. 
Even  majesty  was  deeply  impressed,  and  chatted 
with  the  loquacious  furniture  as  friend  with  friend. 
But  in  next  day's  confession  the  obedient  flock  was 
shown  the  awful  scandal  of  such  diabolical  games, 
and  there  was  never  another  Circle  in  the  palace. 

Yet  there  are  special  reasons  why  the  Spanish 
mind  should  be  easily  influenced  to  receive  any 


252  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

news  which  should  bear  semblance  of  proceeding 
from  the  invisible  world.  Nowhere  in  this  age  does 
the  visionary  realm  touch  so  closely  upon  the  con- 
fines of  the  actual.  Nowhere  is  there  so  vivid  and 
tangible  an  idea  of  the  world  of  spirits  in  the  minds 
of  the  common  people.  This  is  partly  owing  to  the 
I  traditional  teachings  of  the  Church.  The  clergy 
have  always  used  from  the  earliest  ages  the  power- 
ful machinery  of  the  unseen  world  with  great  effect. 
The  ignorance  resulting  from  the  poverty  and  wars 
of  the  Middle  Ages  made  this  practicable,  and  the 
use  of  this  means  of  domination  sustained  the  igno- 
rance on  which  it  flourished.  So  that  the  Devil  is 
more  intimately  known  and  honored  in  Spain  than 
anywhere  else.  He  is  a  real,  genuine  imp,  such  as 
you  can  paint  in  pictures  and  dress  in  pantomime ; 

Lnot  the  vague,  shadowy  ideal  of  evil  to  which  he 
has  faded  away  in  more  enlightened  lands.  He  is 
as  real  and  substantial  as  the  goat-footed  master  of 
the  witches  of  the  Brocken,  with  those  graminivo- 
rous hoofs  and  horns  that  are  the  despair  of  vege- 
tarian philosophers. 

I  read  an  exquisite  passage  in  Father  Claret's 
inimitable  book,  the  Golden  Key  of  the  Confes- 
sional, published  by  high  ecclesiastical  authority. 
He  relates  how  a  woman  died  in  sin ;  her  com- 
panion, sitting  by  the  corpse,  heard  a  noise  at  the 
door  ;  opening  it,  he  saw  in  the  darkness  two  devils 
blacker  than  the  night.  One  of  them  carried  a 
bridle  and  one  a  saddle. 


AN  EVENING  WITH  GHOSTS.  253 

"  What  do  you  want  1 "  asked  the  horror-stricken 
youth. 

"  A  mule  of  ours  "  (using  the  Spanish  feminine). 

"  There  is  no  mule  in  this  house." 

"That  we  shall  see,"  said  the  grisly  visitors, 
forcing  their  way  into  the  room.  They  saddled 
and  bridled  the  poor  corpse,  and  rode  gayly  off 
through  the  window  to  eternal  flames. 

There  is  nothing  in  this  hideously  grotesque  story 
which  to  the  ordinary  Spanish  mind  would  seem 
incredible. 

The  very  air  in  Spain  is  peopled  with  devils.  If 
any  one  yawns,  among  the  lower  classes,  he  makes 
the  sign  of  the  cross  over  his  mouth  to  keep  the 
devilkins  from  slipping  down  his  throat,  and  all  the 
company  say  "  Jesus."  ^ 

The  superstitions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  which  I 
Michelet  has  so  terribly  painted  in  La  Sorci^re, 
seem  to  have  survived  only  in  Spain.  Here  only 
are  traditions  to-day  recounted  as  facts  and  not 
fables.  I  was  walking  one  day  in  the  old  and  pic-  ^ 
turesque  barrier  of  Madrid  that  bounds  the  city  to 
the  south,  when  I  stumbled  upon  a  quaint  and 
silent  lane  called  La  CaUe  de  la  Cabeza,  —  the 
Street  of  the  Head.  I  was  sure  there  was  a  story 
worth  knowing  in  this  name,  and  the  first  well-in- 
formed person  I  asked  told  me  the  history  of  the 
street  "With  all  gravity.    Many  years  ago  a  man  of 


254  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Madrid,  moved  and  instigated  by  the  Devil,  mur- 
dered a  friar  and  escaped  to  Portugal.  He  made  a 
fortune  there,  and  returned,  when  people  had  for- 
gotten his  crime,  to  live  in  his  native  city.  Walk- 
ing by  the  market  one  morning,  he  saw  a  fine 
sheep's  head  for  sale,  and  fearing  it  would  be  gone 
before  he  could  send  a  servant  for  it,  he  bought  it, 
and  carried  it  away  imder  his  cloak.  As  he  walked 
home  the  blood  dripped  on  the  road  and  attracted 
the  attention  ©f  one  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood. 
"What  bearest  thou,  cavalier?"  Now  a  cavalier 
in  Spain  can  carry  nothing  but  a  sword  or  a  woman 
without  dishonor.  So  this  well-dressed  hidalgo 
answered  that  he  bore  nothing.  This  confirmed  the 
suspicions  of  the  zealous  Familiar,  and  he  said, 
"  My  brother,  thou  hast  somewhat  unlawful  beneath 
thy  ca'par  The  cavalier  with  great  shame  then  dis- 
played his  purchase,  and  of  course  it  was  the 
sheepish  head  of  the  slain  friar.  They  beheaded 
the  culprit  and  seized  his  goods ;  "  and  the  moment 
this  was  done,"  said  my  devout  informant  with  per- 
fect innocence,  "the  friar's  head  became  a  sheep's 
head  again,  and  was  nailed  by  the  Holy  Office  to 
the  murderer's  house,  as  a  proof  of  the  miracle." 

There  is  still  a  profound  belief  in  Spain  of  the 
power  of  certain  unholy  incantations  to  raise  un- 
quiet spirits  and  oblige  them  to  works  of  magic. 
When  a  juggler  performs  in  a  theatre,  he  expressly 
states  that  his  science  is  white   magic,  as   distin- 


AN  EVENING  WITH   GHOSTS.  255 

guished  from  the  black  art,  and  is  dependent  solely 
upon  dexterity  of  hand  and  not  at  all  upon  com- 
merce with  damned  souls.  It  is  two  centuries  and 
a  half  since  Cervantes  described  the  innocent  trick 
of  the  Speaking  Head  in  Barcelona,  which  brought 
upon  Don  Quixote's  hospitable  entertainer  the  warn- 
ing of  the  Inquisition,  —  "  ever- watchful  sentinels 
of  our  Faith  " ;  and  even  yet,  in  the  last  edition  of 
the  Dictionary  of  the  Academy,  prepared  by  the 
most  lettered  men  of  the  kingdom,  occurs  this  pre- 
posterous definition :  — 

"Necromancy:  The  abominable  art  of  executing 
strange  and  preternatural  things  by  means  of  the  in- 
vocation of  the  Devil  and  by  compact  with  him." 

Never,  in  all  the  darkest  periods  of  Spanish  his- 
tory, was  the  reign  of  superstition  so  absolute  and 
tyrannical  as  in  the  Alcazar  of  Madrid  during  the 
later  years  of  Isabel  of  Bourbon.  Her  most  trusted 
spiritual  guides  and  counsellors  were  the  Padre 
Claret,  heretofore  mentioned,  and  Sor  Patrocinio  de 
las  Llagas,  —  the  Bleeding  Nun.  This  worthy  lady 
used  to  bring  the  most  astonishing  stories  of  her 
night's  adventures  to  the  breakfast-table.  It  was  a 
common  occurrence  for  his  Satanic  Highness  to 
come  swooping  down  to  her  cell  and  to  give  her  an 
airing,  on  his  bat-like  wings,  above  the  housetops 
of  the  capital.  She  had  miraculous  fountains  con- 
tinually open  in  her  legs  (if  the  word  be  lawful) 


256  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

which  bled  without  pain  or  disease.  Her  principal 
duty  in  the  palace  was  to  sanctify  by  a  day's  wear- 
ing the  intimate  linen  destined  to  the  use  of  her 
pious  mistress  and  friend.  Thus  consecrated^  the 
garments  became  a  mystic  panoply,  which  would 
keep  away  all  infirmity  and  sin,  if  anything  could. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  clergy  speculated 
safely  upon  this  boundless  fund  of  credulity,  nor 
that  they  should  fight  to  the  death  against  any  kin- 
dred delusions  which  should  come  poaching  into 
their  traditional  preserves.  All  their  efforts  have, 
however,  been  unavailing  to  prevent  a  spirit  of  va- 
grant inquiry.  The  dikes  reared  with  such  labor 
were  seriously  damaged  by  the  flood  of  revolution, 
and  the  Spanish  conscience  no  longer  runs  entirely 
in  the  channel  of  other  days.  The  thunders  of  the 
Church  are  powerless  against  the  dissenting  prayer- 
meetings  and  the  rapping  circles  of  the  spiritists. 
The  shock  of  the  last  two  years  of  reform  and 
emancipation  has  set  free  a  great  number  of  uneasy 
minds  to  wander  at  will  in  the  ways  of  speculation. 
The  voice  of  the  Church  is  not  silent  by  any  means. 
A  distinguished  prelate  has  issued  this  syllogism  to 
confound  the  new  scandal :  — 

Spiritism  is  either  natural  or  supernatural ;  it  is 
not  natural ;  therefore  it  is  supernatural. 

Beiag  supernatural,  it  must  proceed  from  God  or 
the  Devil ;  it  does  not  proceed  from  God ;  Argal  — 
the  conclusion  is  too  painful  to  dwell  upon. 


AN   EVENING  WITH  GHOSTS.  257 

The  influence  of  the  vices  of  slavery  are  always 
seen  in  the  first  generation  of  freedmen.  The 
Spiritualists  of  Spain,  who  imagine  they  have 
utterly  broken  the  chain  of  ghostly  thraldom, 
accept  with  a  childlike  credulity  the  figments  of 
their  own  excited  imaginations.  They  have  not 
yet  arrived  at  the  point  of  actual  discussion  and 
genuine  investigation.  The  advocates  of  the  new 
belief  embrace  it  as  a  new  religion,  and  its  oppo- 
nents shut  their  eyes  and  ears  and  denounce  it  as 
rank  impiety.  Test  seances  are  really  never  held. 
The  pretended  manifestations  are  never  subject  to  a 
serious  scrutiny.  But  the  circles  are  continually 
increasing  in  numbers  and  interest.  The  neophytes, 
who  were  at  first  confined  to  the  lower  middle  class, 
now  embrace  many  of  the  wealthier  people,  and  the 
new  faith  is  beginning  to  attack  the  serene  and 
blue-blooded  aristocracy.  Although  it  may  be  only 
exchanging  one  superstition  for  another  cognate, 
there  is  a  certain  feeling  of  relief  in  turning  from 
the  thought  of  that  gloomy  Spanish  limbo,  peopled 
with  doleful  penitents  and  malignant  demons,  to 
that  trivial  and  debonair  heaven  of  the  table-tippers, 
filled  with  men  and  women  only  a  little  sillier  than 
ourselves. 

I  accepted  gratefully  one  evening  the  invitation 
of  a  friend  to  assist  at  a  session  of  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal circles  of  Madrid.  It  was  held  in  the  ground 
floor  of  a  good  house  in  a  good  quarter.     I  found 


258  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

about  a  dozen  gentlemen  of  various  ages  talking, 
with  that  air  of  idle  expectancy  which  always  pre- 
cedes a  performance,  and  -^  the  first  time  that  I  have 
seen  such  a  phenomenon  in  Spain  —  not  smoking. 
They  all  seemed  to  think  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
I  must  be  of  the  fraternity,  being  an  American. 
One  of  them  showed  me  on  the  wall  the  litho- 
graphed portrait  of  a  stout  gentleman,  whom  he 
evidently  regarded  with  great  veneration,  and  said, 
"  There  is  one  of  the  greatest  names  that  America 
has  produced."  I  saw  it  was  not  Washington  nor 
James  Fisk,  and  looked  at  the  florid  signature, — 
Allan  Kardec.  I  was  about  to  argue  myself  un- 
known by  admitting  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Kardec, 
when  another  brother  interrupted  my  interlocutor 
with  the  friendly  expostulation,  "Art  thou  a  don- 
key ?  Allan  Kardec  was  a  Frenchman.  The  great 
American  is  Mees  Fox." 

They  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  ask  some 
questions  as  a  test.  I  wrote  two.  1.  Whether  a 
friend  of  whose  illness  I  had  just  been  informed 
was  living  or  dead.  2.  What  w£is  the  true  theory 
of  the  American  Planchette. 

My  questions  were  laid  on  the  table  before  the 
President's  chair. 

The  room  filled  rapidly.  A  large  round  table 
occupied  a  considerable  portion  of  it,  and  the  me- 
diums took  their  places  there,  well  furnished  with 
paper  and  pencils.     The  rest,  who  had  not  "  risen 


AN  EVENING  WITH   GHOSTS.  259 

to  the  Dome  of  Disclosure,"  but  whx)  consisted,  I 
should  think,  of  about  equal  parts  of  believers  and 
sceptics,  filled  the  line  of  chairs  against  the  wall 
that  extended  around  the  room.  There  was  but  one 
lady  present,  and  it  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  state 
that  she  was  not  one  of  the  listeners.  She  shook 
her  curls  out,  arranged  her  cuffs  and  collar,  marched 
to  the  table,  and  seized  a  pencil  to  be  ready  for  the 
moment  of  inspiration. 

The  President  —  a  grave,  official-looking  person  of 
middle  age,  who  holds  a  high  position  in  the  Minis- 
try of  Finance  —  called  for  the  reading  of  the  minutes 
of  the  last  meeting,  and  then  announced  the  stance 
opened.  He  said,  as  there  were  present  an  unusual 
number  of  the  profane,  it  would  perhaps  be  better  to 
give  the  evening  up  to  special  tests,  rather  than  to 
the  discussion  of  principles.  He  picked  up  my  two 
questions.  He  said,  "  The  first  question  is  personal. 
Who  will  answer  it  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  a  frowsy,  uncombed,  rustic-looking  man, 
with  heavy  eyes  and  rough  laborer's  hands. 

"  Who  art  thou  ? "  said  the  President,  sternly. 

The  man's  hand  grasped  the  pencil  and  wrote  with 
incredible  swiftness, — 

"  Cervantes." 

"Answer  then." 

The  stumpy  fingers  wrote  again  :  — 

"  He  died  last  night  at  five  minutes  past  six." 

The  President  said,  "  Is  that  true  ? " 


260  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

The  medium  gazed  at  me  with  a  stupid  expres- 
sion, which  was  still  not  without  anxiety.  He  was 
evidently  new  in  the  circle,  and  his  reputation  was 
at  stake. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  said ; "  I  have  heard  he  is  very 
ill.     I  will  ask  where  he  died." 

The  hard  hand  grasped  the  pencil  and  wrote,  — 

"Paris." 

The  President  looked  inquiringly  at  me.  I  said, 
"  No.  It  is  impossible.  The  sick  man  was  not  in 
Paris." 

"Perhaps  he  has  just  gone  there,"  said  the 
medium. 

"  He  was  never  there,"  I  answered. 

The  President  spoke  with  great  severity,  looking 
at  the  delinquent  medium.  "  Thou  hast  lied.  Thou 
hast  taken  upon  thyself  a  name  which  does  not 
belong  to  thee.  I  know  thee  well.  Thou  art 
Lucretia.  If  thou  sufferest,  if  thou  hast  complaints 
to  make,  let  us  hear  them  under  thine  own  name." 

The  spirit  thus  paternally  dragooned  preserved  an 
obstinate  silence. 

The  President  added  more  kindly,  "Why  hast 
thou  done  this  ?  " 

If  a  pencil  could  be  snappish,  I  would  apply  that 
epithet  to  the  way  that  crayon  flew  over  the  paper 
and  wrote,  — 

"  Because  I  felt  like  it,  —  that 's  why." 

"  Go  to,  Lucretia,  thou  art  impertinent,"  said  the 
calm  President. 


AN  EVENING   WITH   GHOSTS.  261 

I  turned  to  my  neighbor,  a  regular  hdbitvA  of  the 
circle,  and  asked,  "  Who  is  Lucretia  ? " 

"  Borgia !  and  she  gives  us  no  end  of  trouble.  She 
is  always  assuming  some  new  character.  You  can't 
believe  a  word  she  says." 

This  was  said  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way  con- 
ceivable. 

Ccelum  non  aniwam,  wutavit,  I  thought.  She  is  a 
light  woman  stiU,  though  a  ghost  for  centuries. 

A  tall,  handsome  young  fellow  rose,  with  a  pre- 
posterously high  forehead  and  an  Andalusian  face. 

"  That  is  the  poet  Laurino,"  said  my  neighbor. 

"I  have  thought,  Mr.  President,"  said  Laurino, 
"  that  there  might  have  been  some  mistake  in  the 
answer  given  by  the  last  medium.  I  had  addressed 
a  mental  question  to  the  spirit  of  Cervantes,  and  I 
imagine  he  desired  to  communicate  with  me." 

The  scrubby  medium,  anxious  to  retrieve  his 
reputation,  soiled  by  contact  with  Miss  Borgia,  im- 
mediately wrote,  — 

"That  is  true." 

"  How  shall  we  know  if  you  are  Cervantes  ? "  was 
asked. 

"  By  my  style." 

The  answer  was  fine  and  Castilian  in  sentiment, 
but  the  President  interrupted,  — 

"  Another  hand  is  answering  the  question  of  Mr. 
Laurino." 

I  looked  at  the  mediums  ranged  around  the  table. 


262  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  saw  the  slender  instrument  through  which  the 
vast  spirit  of  Cervantes  was  supposed  to  be  breath- 
ing. He  was  a  pale,  nervous,  delicate  youth,  with 
large  eyes,  large  ears,  and  the  most  enormous  nose 
I  have  ever  seen  out  of  carnival.  Large  noses  al- 
ways exaggerate  the  prevailing  character  of  the  face. 
To  a  strong  face  like  Wellington's  they  give  an  ex- 
pression of  invincibility.  From  a  weak  face  like 
the  one  before  us,  they  take  away  even  that  which 
it  hath.  The  visage  of  this  boy  was  weak  and  im- 
pressible beyond  description.  His  hands  were  white 
and  frail  as  a  lady's.  He  wrote  with  such  rapidity 
that  his  pale  fingers  twinkled  as  you  gazed. 

He  filled  in  about  twenty  minutes  six  pages  of 
manuscript,  and  read  it  to  the  audience.  It  was  a 
circumstantial  account  of  the  life  and  religious  pro- 
fession of  that  mysterious  daughter  of  Cervantes, 
Isabel  de  Saavedra,  whose  history  is  a  shadow,  writ- 
ten with  great  directness  and  some  resemblance  to 
the  style  of  the  great  Castilian.  It  was  at  least 
more  like  Cervantes  than  Ireland  was  like  Shake- 
speare. 

The  strangers  were  amused,  the  general  public 
bored.  But  the  young  poet  was  in  ecstasies.  "  I 
have  devoted  years  of  study  to  the  life  of  Cervantes," 
he  said,  "  and  now  this  revelation  convinces  me  that 
my  deductions  are  true.  I  do  not  wish  to  trespass, 
but  I  would  like  to  ask  one  question  more." 

The  President  assented,  and  Mr.  Laurino,  with  a 


AN  EVENING  WITH   GHOSTS.  263 

hand  trembling  with  agitation,  wrote  a  searching 
and  exhaustive  inquiry  as  to  what  was  the  inner 
meaning  of  Cervantes's  Komance  of  Persiles. 

The  young  gentleman  who  had  achieved  such  a 
triumph  with  his  first  question  girded  up  his  loins 
to  attack  the  second. 

I  saw  the  seance,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case,  was  de- 
generating into  a  dialogue,  and  thought  of  going, 
when  a  disciple  rushed  in  from  an  adjoining  room 
and  said  there  were  some  extraordinary  physical 
manifestations  going  on  there.  Those  of  us  who 
were  indifferently  interested  in  Mr.  Laurino's  view 
of  Persiles  went  into  a  room  adjacent,  and  there 
saw  a  most  comical  old  gentleman  and  two  heavy- 
looking  young  ones  pushing  a  small  table  rapidly 
over  the  floor.  It  was  impossible  to  doubt  their 
good  faith.  They  looked  as  if  they  really  believed 
that  that  bewitched  piece  of  furniture  was  dragging 
them  helplessly  after  it.  Que  fuerza  tiene  !  gasped 
the  old  gentleman,  letting  go  with  one  hand  and 
mopping  his  red  face  with  the  other.  The  table 
hopped  a  little  farther  and  stopped. 

The  old  gentleman  finished  his  mopping,  and  then 
his  polishing,  until  his  honest  old  face  shone  like 
burnished  copper  from  the  white  hair  to  the  white 
mustache.  He  then  returned  to  the  frisky  table 
and  addressed  it  in  the  affectionate  second  person 
singular. 

"  If  thou  hast  fluid  enough  to  march  again,  lift 
up  one  paw." 


264  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

If  the  four-legged  table  had  accomplished  that 
miracle,  I  should  have  believed  and  trembled.  But 
it  did  not  stir. 

"  If  thou  hast  not  fluid  enough  to  march,  lift  up 
two  paws." 

TMs  request  being  much  more  practicable,  the 
table  lifted  up  two  legs  with  as  much  ease  as  if  it 
had  danced  the  Bolero  from  its  youth  up. 

Convinced  that  the  lack  of  fluid  would  prevent 
any  further  furniture  gymnastics  that  evening,  we 
went  back  into  the  other  room  where  the  pale  youth 
had  finished  Cervantes's  exposition  of  Persiles,  and 
was  reading  it  aloud. 

Mr.  Laurino  was  almost  beside  himself  with  de- 
light. "  Caballeros  ! "  he  said,  "  there  are  not  one 
hundred  men  in  Spain  who  have  read  Persiles  —  " 

"  Nor  anything  else,"  growled  my  cynical  friend. 

"  I  have  made  it  a  study  of  years,  and  I  assert 
boldly  that  this  young  man  has  given  a  more  per- 
fect exposition  of  the  inner  significance  of  the  Eo- 
mance  than  exists  in  the  Castilian  language.  He 
agrees  entirely  with  ME  !  Now  excuse  me,  Cabal- 
leros, I  have  only  two  more  questions  to  ask." 

Here  the  suppressed  impatience  of  the  other 
seekers  after  truth  burst  forth,  and  insisted  on  the 
ardent  poet  waiting  until  some  more  practical  mat- 
ters were  disposed  of 

One  man  had  asked  what  lottery-ticket  he  had 
better  buy,  and  was  cruelly  snubbed  by  his  favorite 
spirit. 


AN  EVENING   WITH  GHOSTS.  265 

Another  asked  who  was  Prim's  candidate  for  the 
throne,  and  was  answered,  "  The  future  King  of 
Spain,"  —  a  reply  worthy  of  Delphos. 

Florida  Blanca,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry,  sustained 
the  right  of  society  to  punish  crime,  but  not  to  take 
Ufe. 

To  my  innocent  question  about  Planchette,  Lucre- 
tia  Borgia  again  answered  with  some  asperity,  this 
time  by  the  fair  hand  of  the  lone  lady,  that  if  I 
would  read  the  books  of  spiritualism  I  would  find 
what  they  thought  about  it.  As  I  had  not  asked, 
and  did  not  care  what  they  thought  about  it,  I 
thought  Signorina  Lucrezia  was  not  treating  me 
candidly.  But  then  I  reflected  that  candor  was  never 
a  distinguishing  trait  of  the  Borgias,  and  we  parted 
friends. 

Mr.  Laurino  rose  once  more  to  ask  a  question 
connected  with  the  subjective  life  of  the  author  of 
Quixote,  when  the  lady  who  was  acting  as  aman- 
uensis for  the  perturbed  ghost  of  the  Eoman  Lucre- 
tia  who  did  not  prefer  death  to  dishonor  —  tant  s'en 
faut  —  wrote  a  sentence  with  energy  and  handed  it 
to  Mr.  Laurino,  who  read  it  and  said  with  great 
dignity,  "  I  find  this  communication  in  the  highest 
degree  indecorous,  and  decline  to  receive  it." 

The  President  took  it  and  read  it  aloud :  — 

"  Cervantes  is  a  dunce,  who  from  a  distance  appears 
to  other  dunces  as  a  genius. 

"  LUCRETIA." 
12 


266  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

A  dictum  which  certainly  shiaes  rather  by  origi- 
nality than  justice. 

I  was  sure  that  I  would  hear  nothing  else  so 
novel  that  night  and  came  away,  and  in  half  an 
hour  more  was  involved  in  the  Algebra  of  the  Ger- 
man Cotillon,  as  if  there  were  no  death  or  ghosts, 
or  bilious  poets  with  long  hair,  or  impressible 
youths  with  great  trumpet  noses  in  the  world. 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  267 


PKOVEEBIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  use  of  proverbs  is  characteristic  of  an  un- 
lettered people.  The  common-sense  of  the  lower 
classes  is  condensed  into  these  terse  and  convenient 
phrases,  and  they  pass  from  hand  to  hand  as  the  pence 
and  farthings  of  conversation.  They  are  invaluable 
treasures  to  dunces  with  good  memories.  They 
give  a  semblance  of  wit  to  the  speech  of  the  duU. 
Like  a  few  phrases  of  slang,  which  fix  into  portable 
shape  the  nebulous  ideas  of  the  vulgar,  a  judicious 
use  of  proverbs  makes  the  haziest  utterances  seem 
distinct  and  vigorous. 

Especially  among  a  people  who  have  no  literature 
these  traditional  refrains  are  employed  and  valued. 
The  Spanish  authors  that  every  one  talks  about,  you 
can  count  on  your  fingers.  They  are  the  glory  of 
Spain,  but  they  are  little  quoted,  because  little  read. 
Even  Quixote,  the  Spanish  gospel,  is  more  read  in 
America  than  in  Spain.  In  the  journals,  in  pubHc 
speeches,  in  the  common  conversations  of  every  day, 
the  attic  salt  is  furnished  by  this  unwritten  crystal- 
lized wisdom  of  other  days. 

I  have  recorded  a  few  dozen  as  samples  of  the 
thousands  in  constant  use.     Some  are  striking  from 


?68  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

a  certain  vividness  of  expression,  —  as  a  deadly 
ai&ont  is  characterized  as  "  throwing  a  cat  in  one's 
face";  others  by  a  certain  logical  quality, — as  "there 
are  no  colts  without  mares,"  which  does  the  duty  of 
our  "  no  smoke  without  fire,"  and  with  more  truth, 
as  any  chemist  can  inform  you.  The  Spaniard's 
distrust  of  his  rulers  is  indicated  in  the  saying, 
"  The  Alcalde's  son  goes  safe  to  trial,"  and  his  sturdy 
democracy  finds  expression  in  the  assertion,  "  Many 
a  man  gets  to  heaven  in  tow  breeches." 

If  you  would  accept  a  nation's  proverbs  as  the 
representative  of  its  wisdom,  every  people  would  be 
composed  of  Franklins.  There  is  a  fund  of  fore- 
thought and  prudence,  and  a  canny  knowledge  of 
human  nature  contained  in  these  condensed  apo- 
logues that  we  seek  for  in  vain  among  the  men  who 
use  them.  The  Spaniards  are  a  people  of  expedi- 
ents, but  what  a  radical  lesson  there  is  in  the 
couplet,  — 

"  The  web  will  grow  no  wider, 
"When  you  have  killed  the  spider." 

Our  "  bird  in  the  hand  "  is  a  favorite  image  every- 
where. The  Germans  think  "  a  wren  in  the  hand 
is  better  than  a  dove  on  the  housetop  " ;  and  the 
Spaniards,  more  graphic  still,  say  "  A  sparrow  in  the 
hand  is  better  than  a  bustard  on  the  wing."  The 
lesson  of  industry  is  taught  by  the  rhyme,  — 

A  quien  madruga 
IXc«  U  ayuda^  — 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  269 

"God  helps  the  early  riser."  The  fellowship  of  wick- 
edness is  shown  by  the  zoological  fact  that  "  the 
wolf  and  the  fox  never  come  to  hard  knocks."  The 
bad  effect  of  evil  communications  is  lucidly  set 
forth  in  the  warning,  that  "  he  who  goes  to  bed  with 
dogs  will  get  up  with  fleas." 

The  proverbs  inculcating  reserve  and  discretion 
are  here,  as  in  all  other  tongues,  most  numerous. 
The  duties  of  generosity  and  gratitude  are  taught 
in  one  admirable  phrase,  "  Let  the  giver  be  silent 
and  the  taker  speak."  The  folly  of  false  pretences 
is  brought  home  to  you  by  the  admonition,  "  If  you 
wear  the  clothes  of  others,  you  may  be  stripped  in 
the  street."  Do  not  talk  over  much,  for  "  a  miawling 
cat  takes  no  mice."  The  best  side  of  Spanish  valor 
is  seen  in  the  injunction  which  Don  Quixote  gives 
to  build  a  bridge  of  silver  for  the  flying  foe,  and  in 
that  other  sensible  word  of  advice,  "  Always  give 
the  road  to  winds  and  madmen."  Sometimes  the 
tradition  of  the  neighborhood  runs  into  couplets 
combining  a  variety  of  precepts,  as  in  this  popular 
Andalusian  rhyme :  — 

"  Don't  take  another's  child  for  thine. 
Ride  broken  colts.     And  buy  thy  wine. 
If  trusted,  never  trust  again. 
Nor  brag  of  thy  wife  to  other  men." 

Any  one  who  has  cultivated  his  own  grapes  will  see 
the  wisdom  of  that  second  line,  and  if  King  Can- 
daules  had  thought  of  the  fourth  verse  in  time,  he 
might  have  been  to-day  upon  the  throne. 


270  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

The  proverbs  advise  moderation  in  all  things. 
Do  not  push  your  pleasures  to  satiety :  "  Do  not 
squeeze  the  orange  till  the  juice  is  bitter."  Even 
an  excess  of  energy  and  enterprise  may  be  fatal : 
"  He  who  wanted  to  get  rich  in  a  twelvemonth  was 
hanged  in  six."  Do  not  waste  your  strength  uselessly: 
"  Daybreak  comes  no  sooner  for  your  early  rising." 
Beware  of  too  much  forethought  of  things  not 
certain :  — 

**  Jack  and  Gill,  who  son  had  none, 
Fought  about  naming  him  James  or  John." 

The  duty  of  economy  is,  however,  exalted,  as 
much  as  if  Poor  Eichard  had  passed  through  the 
Peninsula.     How  like  our  Benjamin  is  this :  — 

**  Cover  your  daughters  with  silks  and  furs  : 
Your  farm  will  cover  itself  with  hurrs." 

A  spendthrift,  when  thoroughly  ruined,  is  very  cor- 
dially despised  in  Spain.  They  say,  "  He  has  spent 
everything,  to  the  wax  in  his  ears."  The  last  stage 
of  hopeless  worthlessness  is  reached  when  "  he  has 
nothing  left  for  God  to  rain  on." 

The  Spaniard  loves  good  cheer  whether  he  can 
afford  it  or  not.  The  Peninsula  is  the  land  of  want. 
A  friend  of  mine  once  asked  a  beautiful  little  boy 
who  was  begging  on  a  road  in  Granada  where  his 
parents  were.  "  I  have  none,"  said  the  little 
vagrant ;  "  Soy  hijo  de  hamhre,  —  I  am  the  child  of 
hunger."     The  usual  Spanish  idea  of  luxury  is  a 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  271 

plenty  to  eat.  The  Iberian  phrase  which  translates 
our  festive  "  high  jinks,"  is  arroz  y  gallo  rnuerto,  — 
"  rice  and  dead  cock,"  —  the  ultimate  expression  of 
wasteful  wassail.  The  varied  composition  of  the 
OUa  is  a  temptation  to  the  cook.  So  that  a  Span- 
iard who  knows  his  way  about  is  said  "  to  know 
cat  from  hare  in  his  pottage."  The  sober  feasts  of 
fche  Peninsula  are  always  enlivened  by  moderate 
potations  :  "  Wine  softens  a  hard  bed."  There  are 
certain  favorite  edibles  also,  which,  according  to  the 
proverb,  from  the  nature  of  their  structure  abso- 
lutely require  vinous  irrigation  to  prevent  disastrous 
consequences :  — 

**  Rice,  cucumbers,  and  sea-fish  fin6 
Grow  in  water,  and  die  in  wine." 

But,  after  all,  bread  stands  first  in  the  Spaniard's 
catalogue  of  good  things,  as  it  ought.  "When 
Sancho  on  his  way  back  from  his  Island,  full  of  the 
bitter  experiences  of  political  life,  tumbled  into  the* 
cave  with  his  faithful  donkey,  he  found  the  most 
solid  consolation  in  dividing  his  loaf  with  his  long- 
eared  friend,  and  in  assuring  him  that  todos  los 
duelos  con  pan  son  bv£7ios, — "  bread  is  a  cure  for  every 
grief."  The  faith  the  people  have  in  the  virtues  of 
the  simplest  provend  is  seen  in  the  rhyme,  — 

"  If  garlic  and  wine  and  bread  be  had, 
The  dullest  boor  is  a  lively  lad." 

And  let  no  one  who  has  dined  at  the  Trois  Fr^res 


272  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

scorn  the  fragrant  fruit  which  every  true  Spaniard 
loves.  The  brothers  of  Provence  owed  their  brilliant 
success  to  the  delicate  suspicion  of  ail  that  flavored 
with  the  poetry  of  the  South  their  early  cuisine. 

There  are  a  few  proverbs  of  manners  that  care- 
fully guard  the  golden  mean  between  rudeness  and 
servility.  You  are  warned  that  "stabs  heal,  but 
bad  words  never."  A  soft  answer  is  considered  an 
admirable  thing  in  its  way,  but  in  Spain  you  must 
keep  your  eyes  open:  "honey  in  the  mouth  and 
hand  on  your  purse."  Do  not  be  too  good-natured  : 
"  If  you  make  yourself  honey  the  flies  will  eat  you." 
Be  ready  to  ask  for  what  you  want  and  to  assert 
your  rights  with  clamor  if  need  be  :  Quien  no  llama, 
no  mama, — "  A  still  baby  gets  no  milk."  But  in  all 
things  preserve  the  dignity  of  manhood ;  for  Quien 
mucho  se  haja,  el  culo  ensena,  —  "  He  who  bows  too 
much  exposes  to  general  comment  an  unfavorable 
.side  of  his  person  and  his  character,"  If  the 
wicked  prosper  and  give  scandal  to  the  faithful,  as 
the  English  philosopher  remembers  that  every  dog 
has  his  day,  the  Spaniard  reflects  that  "  every  hog 
has  his  St.  Martin's."  And  if  things  do  not  go  pre- 
cisely to  suit  us,  we  can  observe  that  "  the  chicken 
clings  to  life,  even  with  the  pip,"  and  that  "there  is 
a  remedy  for  everything  but  death." 

This  is  not  strictly  true,  however,  for  in  these 
Catholic  countries  there  is  no  remedy  for  marriage. 
For  these  benighted  souls  the  fetter-dissolving  light 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  273 

of  Indiana  and  Lord  Penzance's  Court  has  never 
shone.  Therefore  it  behooves  the  Spanish  wooer  to 
wed  with  the  utmost  circumspection.  Mere  beauty 
is  not  enough  :  — 

**  Choosing  a  melon  or  maid  by  the  rind,  — 
A  man  who  has  eyes  is  no  better  than  blind." 

Mrs.  Browning  wrote  a  charming  little  poem  to 
show  you  should  not  propose  in  a  ball-room,  and  the 
Spanish  aphorist  agrees  with  her  :  — 

**  Seed  wheat  and  wives,  to  be  chosen  aright, 
Should  not  be  examined  by  candle-light." 

Young  ladies  are  admonished  of  the  danger  there 
is  in  a  breath  of  scandal :  — 

**  A  peach  that  is  spotted 
"Will  never  be  potted." 

The  proverbial  philosopher  does  not  believe  much 
in  love  at  first  sight ;  there  is  a  rhyme  that  runs,  — 

**  Wed  with  a  maid  that  all  your  life. 
You  've  known  and  have  believed. 
Who  rides  ten  leagues  to  find  a  wife 
Deceives  or  is  deceived." 

Finally,  the  two  things  that  of  all  others  will  not 
stand  trifling  with  are  women  and  money :  Con  la 
mujer  y  el  dinero,  no  te  buries  compaHero.  Let  every 
man  exercise  his  utmost  sagacity  in  the  choice  of 
his  partner,  but,  having  chosen,  let  him  abide  by  his 
decision :  "  If  you  take  a  cat  to  bed,  do  not  com- 
plain of  her  claws." 

12*  s 


274  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

The  strong  Spanish  feeling  of  domesticity  is 
everywhere  seen  in  their  common  speech.  A 
favorite  saying  is,  "  Every  man  in  his  own  house 
and  God  in  everybody's."  Many  devout  Moslems 
deny  the  gates  of  paradise  to  a  man  who  'has  not 
produced  a  house,  a  book,  or  a  child.  This  obliga- 
tion of  house-building  seems  to  rest  upon  all 
Spaniards  who  can  afford  it ;  and  there  is  a  solemn 
proverb  of  quite  an  Oriental  flavor  which  says, 
"  When  the  house  is  finished,  the  hearse  is  at  the 
door." 

But  when  the  house  is  built  the  average  male 
Spaniard  regards  it  as  the  only  appropriate  place 
for  the  wife  of  his  bosom.  The  outside  gayeties 
have  no  right  to  distract  her  thoughts, — 

**  The  only  amusement  a  wife  should  desire 
Is  looking  at  faces  in  the  fire." 

"  The  best  women  in  Spain  are  those  with  broken 
legs."  Endless  evils  may  follow  the  habit  of  gad- 
ding. 


'&> 


**  A  woman  or  hen  that 's  given  to  roam 
One  of  these  nights  will  not  come  home." 

Why  should  a  woman  want  to  go  out  ?  says  the 
average  male  Spaniard.  "For  whom  are  the  rib- 
bons of  the  blind  man's  wife  ? "  He  cannot  con- 
ceive, this  obtuse  male  Spaniard,  that  perhaps  Mrs. 
Milton  has  an  eye  for  color,  and  likes  to  be  neat 
when  she  goes  to  mass,  or  to  chat  a  moment  with 


PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY.  275 

Mrs.  Homer.  The  proverbial  Spaniard  disapproves 
of  chatting.  He  says,  "A  long  tongue  weaves  a 
short  web."  He  says  a  talkative  housewife  is  a 
simulacrum :  "  Keys  in  the  girdle  and  dogs  in  the 
pantry." 

The  highest  feminine  ideal  is  that  of  the  sleek 
odalisque  or  stunted  squaw  of  the  West,  who  toils 
all  day,  and,  like  the  fugitives  who  used  to  be  posted 
in  our  Southern  cities,  "  smiles  when  spoken  to." 

**  The  honest  maid  is  ever  gay  ; 
Of  work  she  makes  her  holiday." 

There  is  one  proverb  I  should  be  afraid  to  set 
down  here,  if  I  did  not  record  merely  to  de- 
nounce it.  "Show  me  your  wife,  and  I  will  tell 
you  whom  she  married,"  is  used  to  express  the  idea 
that  the  behavior  of  inferiors  is  the  best  test  of 
the  ability  of  governors.  The  proverb-mongers  of 
Spain  evidently  need  a  season  of  the  soprano 
thunders  of  American  lyceums.  They  have  even 
the  audacity  to  say,  — 

"  All  things  in  the  house  go  ill 
When  the  hen  crows  and  the  cock  is  stiU." 

The  old  Roman  contempt  for  women  survives  in 
this  distant  peninsula,  tinged  with  that  African 
sensuality  which  denied  them  souls  and  yet  adored 
them.     An  Andalusian  refrain  says,  — 

*'  There  is  no  sea- wave  without  salt, 
There  is  no"  woman  without  fault  '* ; 


27(5  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

which  is  true  enough  if  woman  embraces  man. 
But  the  charm  of  youth  is  confessed  in  the  adage, 
"  Nothing  is  ugly  at  fifteen,"  and  grapes  and  beauty 
must  both  be  appreciated  among  a  people  who 
say,  "Vineyards  and  maidens  are  hard  to  guard." 
But  the  hard  struggle  for  subsistence,  the  difficult 
dowry  of  girls,  and  this  half-pagan  resentment  at 
their  presence  in  the  world,  is  seen  in  the  common 
inquiry  as  to  good  or  bad  news,  "Is  it  a  boy  or 
girl  ? "  An  enterprise  which  after  great  labor  brings 
no  result  is  called  mala  Twche  yparir  tiija,  —  "a  hard 
night  and  a  girl  in  the  morning."  Everybody  knows 
that  a  house  full  of  girls  is  a  house  full  of  joy,  but 
the  Spanish  proverb  says,  — 

**  Three  daughters  and  one  mother, 
Four  devils  for  the  father." 

It  further  says  maliciously  that  the  most  fragile 
articles  of  furniture  are  "women  and  window- 
panes."  An  ill-bred  and  loutish  youth  is  called  in 
general  parlance  "son  of  a  widow";  this  arises 
from  the  idea  that  the  rod  is  apt  to  be  spared  in  the 
widowed  household,  and  the  orthodox  Spanish  be- 
lief is  that  instruction  can  only  be  conveyed  to 
mules  and  boys  by  a  topical  application,  —  Mjo  y 
mulo  para  el  culo. 

But  there  is  one  proverb  which  unwittingly  ad- 
mits that  the  cause  of  all  these  malignant  slanders 
of  the  adage-making  race  lies  in  a  galling  sense  of 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  277 

their  own   inferiority  to   the  lovely  beings   they 

traduce,  — 

**  Women  and  wine  are  things  that  can 
Take  the  wit  out  of  the  wisest  man." 

These  blasphemies  are  carried  into  the  sacred 
household  circle.  They  say,  "  No  sugar  can  sweeten 
a  mother-in-law."  You  can  see  in  such  an  utter- 
ance the  spirit  of  some  Iberian  Thackeray  declaring 
that  the  happiness  of  Adam  in  Eden  consisted  in 
having  no  mother-in-law.  There  is  a  fiendish  rhyme 
addressed  to  this  injured  aild  necessary  class,  — 

**  You  will  leave  to  your  son-in-law  when  you  depart, 
Crape  on  his  hat  and  joy  in  his  heart." 

There  is  a  touch  of  Celtic  nature  in  this  injunc- 
tion, which  will  be  appreciated  by  all  policemen 
who  have  ventured  to  save  a  lady  of  the  name  of 
Bridget  from  the  chastising  hand  of  a  descendant 
of  the  Kings  of  Connaught, — 

**  In  fights  between  spouses  and  brothers, 
Bad  luck  to  the  man  that  bothers." 

Proverbs  referring  to  the  family  relation  are  in- 
numerable. Here  is  one  pregnant  with  meaning  to 
young  men,  — 

"  Son  thou  art  and  father  shalt  be  ; 
As  thou  to  thy  sire,  thy  son  to  thee." 

The  Hebrew's  dinner  of  herbs  is  matched  by  the 
Spaniard's  "  bread  with  love  is  better  than  a  chicken 
with  strife."     But  there  is  a  curious  cynicism  in 


278  CASTILTAN   DAYS. 

another  refrain  that  refers  to  the  restraining  virtues 
of  poverty,  "When  a  man  has  no  money,  he  calls 
his  wife  Honey." 

The  widespread  error  about  the  wickedness  of 
parsons'  boys  has  extended  into  Spain.  Padre  santo 
hijo  diablo,  they  say,  —  "  father  saint  and  son  devil " ; 
but  bad  as  the  sons  may  be,  the  collateral  descen- 
dants seem  to  be  much  worse,  according  to  the  prov- 
erb which  asserts  that  "  to  whom  God  gave  no  sons 
the  Devil  gave  nephews."  Or  does  this  refer  to  the 
supernatural  or  infranatuVal  sources  from  which  the 
celibate  clergy  derive  their  heirs?  Anyway,  it  is 
to  be  inferred  that  the  company  of  a  nephew  is  not 
so  agreeable  that  the  appetite  for  it  should  grow  by 
what  it  feeds  on,  for  the  adage  warns  him  against 
too  frequent  visits,  — 

"  En  casa  de  tia, 
Mas  no  cada  dia." 

Still,  the  strong  tie  of  consanguinity  is  recognized 
in  the  aphorism,  "  An  ounce  of  blood  is  better  than 
a  pound  of  friendship," — a  truth  worth  remember- 
ing in  this  land  where  the  claims  of  race  and  clan 
outweigh  all  obligations  of  honor  or  gratitude. 

In  a  scrap  of  proverb  you  will  sometimes  see  a 
page  of  the  dark  history  of  bigotry  and  wars.  "Do 
not  carry  a  Jew  in  your  body  "  means  "  Do  not  bear 
malice,"  and  shows  that  these  good  Catholics  really 
disliked  being   hated  by  the  poor  creatures  they 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  279 

robbed  and  murdered  through  so  many  ages.  No 
matter  from  what  hands  gold  came,  it  was  always 
orthodox,  —  El  dinero  es  muy  Catolico.  What  a 
view  of  the  long  years  of  disappointment  passed  in 
the  fruitless  study  of  astrology  survives  in  the 
adage,  "  There  is  nothing  so  sure  as  the  lying  of  the 
stars."  What  a  Uase  expression  of  disillusion  in 
the  contemplation  of  moral  grandeur  and  the  fierce 
Spanish  pursuit  of  wealth  you  find  in  the  words, 
"  In  stories  of  goodness  and  riches  the  half  is  a  lie." 
A  mild  satire  upon  those  who  labor  for  wealth  they 
cannot  use  is  conveyed  in  the  rhyme,  — 

Por  dinero 
Baila  el  perro,  — 

"  The  dog  dances  for  money." 

There  is  a  species  of  Eastern  devoutness  in  the 
manner  in  which  the  Spaniard  accepts  anything 
which  may  be  called  a  dispensation  of  Heaven. 
"  God  gives  the  sore  and  knows  the  medicine,"  he 
says.  No  detail  of  life  is  too  trivial  for  Divine 
ordering,  — 

**  Each  man  sneezes 
As  God  pleases." 

Yet  common-sense  asserts  itself  in  other  mottoes ; 
as,  "  Pray  !  but  swing  your  hammer."  An  encour- 
aging phrase  in  situations  of  extreme  difficulty  is, 
"  There  are  Bulls  for  the  dead."  So  devout  a  peo- 
ple must  pray  briskly,  or  there  will  be  no  time  for 
anything  else ;  so  that  the  definition  of  promptness 


I 


280  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

which  we  indicate  by  the  time  necessary  to  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  Mr.  John  Eobinson  becomes 
in  Spain  "  in  an  Ave  Maria."  It  was  not  to  the 
interest  of  the  Church  that  the  faithful  should  neg- 
lect the  means  of  grace.  Masses  were  the  serious 
business  of  life.  So  when  a  man  dies  they  say  "  he 
has  gone  to  give  an  account  of  his  masses/'  —  just 
as  they  remark  in  the  profane  West  that  "  he  has 
passed  in  his  checks."  They  had  their  quiet  joke 
at  their  ghostly  comforters  also.  Money  that  has 
been  gained  without  labor,  and  is  therefore  spent 
without  remorse,  is  called  "  Sacristan's  cash." 

The  Adversary  plays  his  part  in  Spanish  proverb 
as  well  as  in  Spanish  theology.  In  any  tumultuous 
hubbub  they  say  the  Devil  is  loose.  There  is  a  fine 
moral  in  another  saying,  "  When  we  lie  in  wait  for 
our  neighbor  the  Devil  lies  in  wait  for  us." 

There  is  little  that  is  comforting  in  the  Spaniard's 
idea  of  the  Creator.  The  French  peasant's  hon  Dieu 
ceases  to  exist  at  the  Pyrenees  and  is  replaced  by  a 
stern  and  awful  image  that  has  too  much  of  royalty 
to  be  loved  and  cherished.  What  a  history  of  fruit- 
less struggle,  of  belief  baffled,  there  is  in  the  prov- 
erb, "If  God  is  against  you,  the  saints  are  of  no 
use."  And  what  a  grim  smile  of  rebellious  resigna- 
tion in  the  quaint  phrase,  "  God  gives  almonds  to  the 
toothless."  Still,  here  as  everywhere,  through  aU 
the  fog  and  mist  of  superstition,  some  ray  of  the 
divine  and  fatherly  love  finds  out  and  cheers  these 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY.  281 

trusting  souls,  until  they  feel  they  are  not  utterly 
desolate.  "God  sends  the  cold  according  to  our 
rags,"  is  their  simple  and  touching  confession  of 
faith.  And  there  is  a  rude  and  Asian  dignity  about 
that  other  saying,  with  which  they  console  them- 
selves amid  all  their  sorrows  and  their  wrongs,  — 

"  God  is  not  dead  of  old  age." 


282  OASTILIAN  DAYS. 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES. 

In  Rembrandt  Peale's  picture  of  the  Court  of 
Death  a  cadaverous  shape  lies  for  judgment  at 
the  foot  of  the  throne,  touching  at  either  extremity 
the  waters  of  Lethe.  There  is  something  similar  in 
the  history  of  the  greatest  of  Spanish  writers.  No 
man  knew,  for  more  than  a  centuiy  after  the  death 
of  Cervantes,  the  place  of  his  birth  and  burial. 
About  a  hundred  years  ago  the  investigations  of 
Rios  and  Pellicer  established  the  claim  of  Alcala 
de  Henares  to  be  his  native  city ;  and  last  year  the 
researches  of  the  Spanish  Academy  have  proved 
conclusively  that  he  is  buried  in  the  Convent  of 
the  Trinitarians  in  Madrid.  But  the  precise  spot 
where  he  was  born  is  only  indicated  by  vague  tra- 
dition ;  and  the  shadowy  conjecture  that  has  so 
long  hallowed  the  chapel  and  cloisters  of  the  Calle 
Cantarranas  has  never  settled  upon  any  one  slab 
of  their  pavement. 

It  is,  however,  only  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  this  most  chivalrous  and  genial  apparition  of  the 
sixteenth  century  that  is  concealed  from  our  view. 
We  know  where  he  was  christened  and  where  he 
died.    So  that  there  are  sufficiently  authentic  shrines 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   283 

in  Alcala  and  Madrid  to  satisfy  the  most  sceptical 
pilgrims. 

I  went  to  Alcala  one  summer  day,  when  the  bare 
fields  were  brown  and  dry  in  their  after-harvest 
nudity,  and  the  hills  that  bordered  the  winding 
Henares  were  drab  in  the  light  and  purple  in  the 
shadow.  From  a  distance  the  town  is  one  of  the 
most  imposing  in  Castile.  It  lies  in  the  midst  of  a 
vast  plain  by  the  green  water-side,  and  the  land 
approach  is  fortified  by  a  most  impressive  wall 
emphasized  by  sturdy  square  towers  and  flanking 
bastions.  But  as  you  come  nearer  you  see  this  wall 
is  a  tradition.  It  is  almost  in  ruins.  The  crenel- 
lated towers  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  sketch.  A 
short  walk  from  the  station  brings  you  to  the  gate, 
which  is  well  defended  by  a  gang  of  picturesque 
beggars,  who  are  old  enough  to  have  sat  for  Murillo, 
and  revoltingly  pitiable  enough  to  be  millionnaires 
by  this  time,  if  Castilians  had  the  cowardly  habit 
of  sponging  out  disagreeable  impressions  with  pen- 
nies. At  the  first  charge  we  rushed  in  panic  into  a 
tobacco-shop  and  filled  our  pockets  with  maravedis, 
and  thereafter  faced  the  ragged  battalion  with  calm. 

It  is  a  fine,  handsome,  and  terribly  lonesome 
town.  Its  streets  are  wide,  well  built,  and  silent  as 
avenues  in  a  graveyard.  On  every  hand  there  are 
tall  and  stately  churches,  a  few  palaces,  and  some 
two  dozen  great  monasteries  turning  their  long  walls, 
pierced  with  jealou?  grated  windows,  to  the  grass- 


284  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

grown  streets.  In  many  quarters  there  is  no  sign 
of  life,  no  human  habitations  among  these  morose 
and  now  empty  barracks  of  a  monkish  army.  Some 
of  them  have  been  turned  into  military  casernes, 
and  the  bright  red  and  blue  uniforms  of  the  Span- 
ish officers  and  troopers  now  brighten  the  cloisters 
that  used  to  see  nothing  gayer  than  the  gowns  of 
cord-girdled  friars.  A  large  garrison  is  always  kept 
here.  The  convents  are  convenient  for  lodging  men 
and  horses.  The  fields  in  the  vicinity  produce  great 
store  of  grain  and  alfalfa,  —  food  for  beast  and 
rider.  It  is  near  enough  to  the  capital  to  use  the 
garrison  on  any  sudden  emergency,  such  as  frequent- 
ly happens  in  Peninsular  politics. 

The  railroad  that  runs  by  Alcala  has  not  brought 
with  it  any  taint  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The 
army  is  a  corrupting  influence,  but  not  modern. 
The  vice  that  follows  the  trail  of  armies,  or  sprouts, 
fungus-like,  about  the  walls  of  barracks,  is  as  old  as 
war,  and  links  the  present,  with  its  struggle  for  a 
better  life,  to  the  old  mediaeval  world  of  wrong. 
These  trim  fellows  in  loose  trousers  and  embroidered 
jackets  are  the  same  race  that  fought  and  drank 
and  made  prompt  love  in  Italy  and  Flanders  and 
butchered  the  Aztecs  in  the  name  of  religion  three 
hundred  years  ago.  They  have  laid  off  their  helms 
and  hauberks,  and  use  the  Berdan  rifle  instead  of 
the  Roman  spear.  But  they  are  the  same  careless^ 
idle,  dissolute  bread-wasters  now  as  then. 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   285 

The  town  lias  not  changed  in  the  least.  It  has 
only  shrunk  a  little.  You  think  sometimes  it  must 
be  a  vacation,  and  that  you  will  come  again  when 
people  return.  The  little  you  see  of  the  people  is 
very  attractive.  Passing  along  the  desolate  streets, 
you  glance  in  at  an  open  door  and  see  a  most  de- 
lightful cabinet  picture  of  domestic  life.  All  the 
doors  in  the  house  are  open.  You  can  see  through 
the  entry,  the  front  room,  into  the  cool  court  beyond, 
gay  with  oleanders  and  vines,  where  a  group  of 
women  half  dressed  are  sewing  and  spinning  and 
cheering  their  souls  with  gossip.  If  you  enter 
under  pretence  of  asking  a  question,  you  wiU  be 
received  with  grave  courtesy,  your  doubts  solved, 
and  they  wiU  bid  you  go  with  God,  with  the  quaint 
frankness  of  patriarchal  times. 

They  do  not  seem  to  have  been  spoiled  by  over- 
much travel.  Such  impressive  and  Oriental  courtesy 
could  not  have  survived  the  trampling  feet  of  the 
great  army  of  tourists.  On  our  pilgrim-way  to  the 
cradle  of  Cervantes  we  came  suddenly  upon  the 
superb  faqade  of  the  University.  This  is  one  of 
the  most  exquisite  compositions  of  plateresque  in 
existence.  The  entire  front  of  the  central  body  of 
the  building  is  covered  with  rich  and  tasteful  orna- 
mentation. Over  the  great  door  is  an  enormous 
escutcheon  of  the  arms  of  Austria,  supported  by  two 
finely  carved  statues,  —  on  the  one  side  a  nearly  nude 
warrior,  on  the  other  the  New  World  as  a  feather- 


286  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

clad  Indian-woman.  Still  above  this  a  fine,  bold 
group  of  statuary,  representing,  with  that  reverent 
naivete  of  early  art,  God  the  Father  in  the  work  of 
creation.  Surrounding  the  whole  front  as  with  a 
frame,  and  reaching  to  the  ground  on  either  side,  is 
carved  the  knotted  cord  of  the  Franciscan  monks. 
No  description  can  convey  the  charming  impression 
given  by  the  harmony  of  proportion  and  the  loving 
finish  of  detail  everywhere  seen  in  this  beautifully 
preserved  facade.  While  we  were  admiring  it  an 
officer  came  out  of  the  adjoining  cuartel  and  walked 
by  us  with  jingling  spurs.  I  asked  him  if  one 
could  go  inside.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
Quien  sabe  ?  indicating  a  doubt  as  profound  as  if  I 
had  asked  him  whether  chignons  were  worn  in  the 
moon.  He  had  never  thought  of  anything  inside. 
There  was  no  wine  nor  pretty  girls  there.  Why 
should  one  want  to  go  in  ?  We  entered  the  cool 
vestibule,  and  were  ascending  the  stairs  to  the  first 
court,  when  a  porter  came  out  of  his  lodge  and  in- 
quired our  errand.  We  were  wandering  barbarians 
with  an  eye  to  the  picturesque,  and  would  fain  see 
the  University,  if  it  were  not  unlawful.  He  replied, 
in  a  hushed  and  scholastic  tone  of  voice,  and  with  a 
succession  of  confidential  winks  that  would  have 
inspired  confidence  in  the  heart  of  a  Talleyrand, 
that  if  our  lordships  would  give  him  our  cards  he 
had  no  doubt  he  could  obtain  the  required  permis- 
sion from  the  rector.     He  showed  us  into  a  dim, 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   2b7 

claustral-looking  anteroom,  in  which,  as  I  was  told 
by  my  friend,  who  trifles  in  lost  moments  with  the 
Integral  Calculus,  there  were  seventy-two  chairs 
and  one  microscopic  table.  The  wall  was  decked 
with  portraits  of  the  youth  of  the  college,  all  from 
the  same  artist,  who  probably  went  mad  from  the 
attempt  to  make  fifty  beardless  faces  look  unlike 
each  other.  We  sat  for  some  time  mourning  over 
his  failure,  until  the  door  opened,  and  not  the  por- 
ter, but  the  rector  himself,  a  most  courteous  and 
polished  gentleman  in  the  black  robe  and  three-cor- 
nered hat  of  his  order,  came  in  and  graciously 
placed  himself  and  the  University  at  our  disposi- 
tion. We  had  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves 
upon  this  good  fortune.  He  showed  us  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  vast  edifice,  where  the  present 
and  the  past  elbowed  each  other  at  every  turn  :  here 
the  boys'  gymnasium,  there  the  tomb  of  Valles ;  here 
the  new  patent  cocks  of  the  water-pipes,  and  there 
the  tri-lingual  patio  where  Alonso  Sanchez  lectured 
in  Arabic,  Greek,  and  Chaldean,  doubtless  making 
a  choice  hash  of  the  three ;  the  airy  and  graceful 
paraninfo,  or  hall  of  degrees,  a  masterpiece  of 
Moresque  architecture,  with  a  gorgeous  panelled 
roof,  a  rich  profusion  of  plaster  arabesques  and, 
Jiorresco  referens,  the  walls  covered  with  a  bright 
French  paper.  Our  good  rector  groaned  at  this 
abomination,  but  said  the  Gauls  had  torn  away  the 
glorious  carved  panelling  for  firewood  in  the  war  of 


288  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

1808,  and  the  college  was  too  poor  to  restore  it. 
His  righteous  indignation  waxed  hot  again  when  we 
came  to  the  beautiful  sculptured  pulpit  of  the 
chapel,  where  all  the  delicate  details  are  degraded 
by  a  thick  coating  of  whitewash,  which  in  some 
places  has  fallen  away  and  shows  the  gilding  of  the 
time  of  the  Catholic  kings. 

There  is  in  this  chapel  a  picture  of  the  Virgin 
appearing  to  the  great  cardinal  whom  we  call  Xime- 
nez  and  the  Spaniards  Cisneros,  which  is  precious 
for  two  reasons.  The  portrait  of  Ximenez  was 
painted  from  life  by  the  nameless  artist,  who,  it  is 
said,  came  from  France  for  the  purpose,  and  the  face 
of  the  Virgin  is  a  portrait  of  Isabella  the  Catholic. 
It  is  a  good  wholesome  face,  such  as  you  would  ex- 
pect. But  the  thin,  powerful  profile  of  Ximenez  is 
very  striking,  with  his  red  hair  and  florid  tint,  his 
curved  beak,  and  long,  nervous  lips.  He  looks  not 
unlike  that  superb  portrait  Kaphael  has  left  of  Car- 
dinal Medici. 

This  University  is  fragrant  with  the  good  fame 
of  Ximenez.  In  the  principal  court  there  is  a  fine 
medallion  of  the  illustrious  founder  and  protector, 
as  he  delighted  to  be  drawn,  with  a  sword  in  one 
hand  and  a  crucifix  in  the  other,  —  twin  brother  in 
genius  and  fortune  of  the  soldier  priest  of  France, 
the  Cardinal-Duke  Eichelieu.  On  his  gorgeous 
sarcophagus  you  read  the  arrogant  epitaph  with 
which  he  revenged  himself  for  the  littleness  of 
kings  and  courtiers:  — 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   289 

"  Praetextam  junxi  sacco,  galeamque  galero, 
Frater,  dux,  prsesul,  cardineusque  pater. 
Quin,  virtute  mea  junctum  est  diadema  cucullo, 
Dum  mihi  regnanti  patuit  Gesperia." 

By  a  happy  chance  our  visit  was  made  in  a  holi- 
day time,  and  the  students  were  all  away.  It  was 
better  that  there  should  be  perfect  solitude  and 
silence  as  we  walked  through  the  noble  system  of 
buildings  and  strove  to  re-create  the  student  world,,^ — . 
of  Cervantes's  time.  The  chronicle  which  mentions  ^ 
the  visit  of  Francis  I.  to  Alcala,  when  a  prisoner  in 
Spain,  says  he  was  received  by  eleven  thousand 
students.  This  was  only  twenty  years  before  the 
birth  of  Cervantes.  The  world  will  never  see  again 
so  brilliant  a  throng  of  ingenuous  youth  as  gathered 
together  in  the  great  university  towns  in  those 
years  of  vivid  and  impassioned  greed  for  letters  that 
followed  the  revival  of  learning.  The  romance  of 
Oxford  or  Heidelberg  or  Harvard  is  tame  compared 
with  that  electric  life  of  a  new-born  world  that 
wrought  and  flourished  in  Padua,  Paris,  and  Alcala. 
Walking  with  my  long-robed  scholarly  guide  through 
the  still,  shadowy  courts,  imder  renaissance  arches 
and  Moorish  roofs,  hearing  him  talking  with  enthu- 
siasm of  the  glories  of  the  past  and  never  a  word 
of  the  events  of  the  present,  in  his  pure,  strong, 
guttural  Castilian,  no  living  thing  in  view  but  an 
occasional  Franciscan  gliding  under  the  graceful 
arcades,  it  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  scenes  of 

13  s 


Li 


290  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  intense  young  life  which  filled  these  noble  halls 
in  that  fresh  day  of  aspiration  and  hope,  when  this 
Spanish  sunlight  fell  on  the  marble  and  the  granite 
bright  and  sharp  from  the  chisel  of  the  builder,  and 
the  great  Ximenez  looked  proudly  on  his  perfect 
work  and  saw  that  it  was  good. 

The  twihght  of  superstition  still  hung  heavily 
over  Europe.  But  this  was  nevertheless  the  break- 
ing of  dawn,  the  herald  of  the  fuller  day  of  inves- 
tigation and  inquiry. 

It  was  into  this  rosy  morning  of  the  modem  world 
that  Cervantes  was  ushered  in  the  season  of  the 
falling  leaves  of  1547.  He  was  born  to  a  life  of 
poverty  and  struggle  and  an  immortality  of  fame. 
His  own  city  did  not  know  him  while  he  lived,  and 
now  is  only  known  through  him.  Pilgrims  often 
come  from  over  distant  seas  to  breathe  for  one  day 
the  air  that  filled  his  baby  lungs,  and  to  muse  among 
the  scenes  that  shaped  his  earliest  thoughts. 

We  strolled  away  from  the  University  through 
the  still  lanes  and  squares  to  the  Calle  Mayor,  the 
only  thoroughfare  of  the  town  that  yet  retains  some 
vestige  of  traffic.  It  is  a  fine,  long  street  bordered 
by  stone  arcades,  within  which  are  the  shops,  and 
without  which  in  the  pleasant  afternoon  are  the 
rosy  and  contemplative  shopkeepers.  It  would 
seem  a  pity  to  disturb  their  dreamy  repose  by  offer- 
ing to  trade ;  and  in  justice  to  CastOian  taste  and 
feeling  I  must  say  that  nobody  does  it.     Half-way 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES    291 

down  the  street  a  side  alley  runs  to  the  right,  called 
Calle  de  Cervantes,  and  into  this  we  turned  to  find 
the  birthplace  of  the  romancer.  On  one  side  was  a 
line  of  squalid,  quaint,  gabled  houses,  on  the  other 
a  long  garden  wall.  We  walked  under  the  shadow 
of  the  latter  and  stared  at  the  house-fronts,  looking 
for  an  inscription  we  had  heard  of  We  saw  in 
sunny  doorways  mothers  oiling  into  obedience  the 
stiff  horse-tail  hair  of  their  daughters.  By  the 
grated  windows  we  caught  glimpses  of  the  black 
eyes  and  nut-brown  cheeks  of  maidens  at  their 
needles.  But  we  saw  nothing  to  show  which  of 
these  mansions  had  been  honored  by  tradition  as 
the  residence  of  Eoderick  Cervantes. 

A  brisk  and  practical-looking  man  went  past  us. 
I  asked  him  where  was  the  house  of  the  poet.  He 
smiled  in  a  superior  sort  of  way,  and  pointed  to  the 
wall  above  my  head :  "  There  is  no  such  house. 
Some  people  think  it  once  stood  here,  and  they 
have  placed  that  stone  in  the  garden-wall  to  mark 
the  spot.  I  believe  what  I  see.  It  is  all  child's 
play  anyhow,  whether  true  or  false.  There  is  bet- 
ter work  to  be  done  now  than  to  honor  Cervantes. 
He  fought  for  a  bigot  king,  and  died  in  a  monk's 
hood." 

"  You  think  lightly  of  a  glory  of  Castile." 

"  If  we  could  forget  all  the  glories  of  Castile  it 
would  be  better  for  us." 

"  Ptiede  ser"  I  assented.  "  Many  thanks.  May 
your  Grace  go  with  God ! " 


292  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

"  Health  and  fraternity  ! "  he  answered,  and  moved 
away  with  a  step  full  of  energy  and  dissent.  He 
entered  a  door  under  an  inscription,  "  Federal  Ee- 
publican  Club." 

Go  your  ways,  I  thought,  radical  brother.  You 
are  not  so  courteous  nor  so  learned  as  the  rector.  But 
this  Peninsula  has  need  of  men  like  you.  The  ages 
of  belief  have  done  their  work  for  good  and  ill.  Let 
us  have  some  years  of  the  spirit  that  denies,  and 
asks  for  proofs.  The  power  of  the  monk  is  broken, 
but  the  work  is  not  yet  done.  The  convents  have 
been  turned  into  barracks,  which  is  no  improve- 
ment. The  ringing  of  spurs  in  the  streets  of  Alcala 
is  no  better  than  the  rustling  of  the  sandalled  friars. 
If  this  Kepublican  party  of  yours  cannot  do  some- 
thing to  free  Spain  from  the  triple  curse  of  crown, 
crozier,  and  sabre,  then  Spain  is  in  doleful  case. 
They  are  at  last  divided,  and  the  first  two  have 
been  sorely  weakened  in  detail.  The  last  should 
be  the  easiest  work. 

The  scorn  of  my  radical  friend  did  not  prevent 
my  copying  the  modest  tablet  on  the  wall :  — 

"  Here  was  born  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra, 
author  of  Don  Quixote.  By  his  fame  and  his  genius 
he  belongs  to  the  civilized  world ;  by  his  cradle  to 
Alcala  de  Henares." 

There  is  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  latter  part 
of  this  inscription.  Eight  Spanish  towns  have 
claimed  ta  have  given  birth  to  Cervantes,  thus  beat< 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   293 

ing  the  blind  Scian  by  one  town ;  every  one  that  can 
show  on  its  church  records  the  baptism  of  a  child 
so  called  has  made  its  claim.  Yet  Alcala,  who 
spells  his  name  wrong,  calling  him  Carvantes,  is 
certainly  in  the  right,  as  the  names  of  his  father, 
mother,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  also  given  in  its 
records,  and  all  doubt  is  now  removed  from  the 
matter  by  the  discovery  of  Cervantes's  manuscript 
statement  of  his  captivity  in  Algiers  and  his  peti- 
tion for  employment  in  America,  in  both  of  which 
he  styles  himself  "  Natural  de  Alcala  de  Henares." 
Having  examined  the  evidence,  we  considered 
ourselves  justly  entitled  to  all  the  usual  emotions 
in  visiting  the  church  of  the  parish,  Santa  Maria  la 
Mayor.  It  was  evening,  and  from  a  dozen  belfries 
in  the  neighborhood  came  the  soft  dreamy  chime  of 
silver-throated  bells.  In  the  little  square  in  front 
of  the  church  a  few  families  sat  in  silence  on  the 
massive  stone  benches.  A  few  beggars  hurried  by, 
too  intent  upon  getting  home  to  supper  to  beg.  A 
rural  and  a  twilight  repose  lay  on  everything.  Only 
in  the  aii,  rosy  with  the  level  light,  flew  out  and 
greeted  each  other  those  musical  voices  of  the  bells 
rich  with  the  memories  of  aU  the  days  of  Alcala. 
The  church  was  not  open,  but  we  followed  a  sacristan 
in,  and  he  seemed  too  feeble-minded  to  forbid.  It 
is  a  pretty  church,  not  large  nor  imposing,  with  a 
look  of  cosy  comfort  about  it.  Through  the  dark- 
ness the  high  altar  loomed  before  us,  dimly  lighted 


294  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

by  a  few  candles  where  the  sacristans  were  setting 
up  the  properties  for  the  grand  mass  of  the  morrow, 
—  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  There  was  much  talk 
and  hot  discussion  as  to  the  placing  of  the  boards 
and  the  draperies,  and  the  image  of  Our  Lady  seemed 
immoved  by  words  unsuited  to  her  presence.  We 
know  that  every  vibration  of  air  makes  its  own  im- 
pression on  the  world  of  matter.  So  that  the  curses 
of  the  sacristans  at  their  work,  the  prayers  of  peni- 
tents at  the  altar,  the  wailing  of  breaking  hearts 
bowed  on  the  pavement  through  many  years,  are  all 
recorded  mysteriously,  in  these  rocky  walls.  This 
church  is  the  illegible  history  of  the  parish.  But 
of  all  its  ringing  of  bells,  and  swinging  of  censers, 
and  droning  of  psalms,  and  putting  on  and  ofip  of 
goodly  raiment,  the  only  show  that  consecrates  it 
for  the  world's  pilgrimage  is  that  humble  procession 
that  came  on  the  9th  day  of  October,  in  the  year  of 
Grace  1547,  to  baptize  Roderick  Cervantes's  youngest 
child.  There  could  not  be  an  humbler  christening. 
Juan  Pardo  —  John  Gray  —  was  the  sponsor,  and 
the  witnesses  were  "  Baltazar  Vazquez,  the  sacristan, 
and  I  who  baptized  him  and  signed  with  my  name," 
says  Mr.  Bachelor  Serrano,  who  never  dreamed  he 
was  stumbling  into  fame  when  he  touched  that  pink 
face  with  the  holy  water  and  called  the  child  Miguel. 
It  is  my  profound  conviction  that  Juan  Pardo 
brought  the  baby  himself  to  the  church  and  took  it 
home  again,  screaming  wrathfully ;  Neighbor  Pardo 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   295 

feeling  a  little  sheepish  and  mentally  resolving  never 
to  do  another  good-natured  action  as  long  as  he 
lived. 

As  for  the  neophyte,  he  could  not  be  blamed  for 
screaming  and  kicking  against  the  new  existence  he 
was  entering,  if  the  instinct  of  genius  gave  him  any 
hint  of  it.  Between  the  font  of  St.  Mary's  and  the 
bier  at  St.  Ildefonso's  there  was  scarcely  an  hour  of 
joy  waiting  him  in  his  long  life,  except  that  which 
comes  from  noble  and  earnest  work. 

His  youth  was  passed  in  the  shabby  privation  of 
a  poor  gentleman's  house ;  his  early  talents  attracted 
the  attention  of  my  Lord  Aquaviva,  the  papal  Legate, 
who  took  him  back  to  Kome  in  his  service ;  but  the 
high-spirited  youth  soon  left  the 'inglorious  ease  of 
the  Cardinal's  house  to  enlist  as  a  private  soldier  in 
the  sea-war  against  the  Turk.  He  fought  bravely 
at  Lepanto,  where  he  was  three  times  wounded  and 
his  left  hand  crippled.  Going  home  for  promotion, 
loaded  with  praise  and  kind  letters  from  the  gener- 
ous bastard,  Don  Juan  of  Austria,  the  true  son  of 
the  Emperor  Charles  and  pretty  Barbara  Blumberg, 
he  was  captured  with  his  brother  by  the  Moors,  and 
passed  five  miserable  years  in  slavery,  never  for  one 
instant  submitting  to  his  lot,  but  wearying  his  hos- 
tile fate  with  constant  struggles.  He  headed  a  dozen 
attempts  at  flight  or  insurrection,  and  yet  his  thrifty 
owners  would  not  kill  him.  They  thought  a  man 
who  bore  letters  from  a  prince,  and  who  continued 


296  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

cock  of  his  walk  through  years  of  servitude,  would 
one  day  bring  a  round  ransom.  At  last  the  tardy 
day  of  his  redemption  came,  but  not  from  the  cold- 
hearted  tyrant  he  had  so  nobly  served.  The  matter 
was  presented  to  him  by  Cervantes's  comrades,  but 
he  would  do  nothing.  So  that  Don  Eoderick  sold 
his  estate  and  his  sisters  sacrificed  their  dowry  to 
buy  the  freedom  of  the  captive  brothers. 

They  came  back  to  Spain  still  young  enough  to 
be  fond  of  glory,  and  simple-hearted  enough  to  be- 
lieve in  the  justice  of  the  great.  They  immediately 
joined  the  army  and  served  in  the  war  with  Portu- 
gal The  elder  brother  made  his  way  and  got  some 
little  promotion,  but  Miguel  got  married  and  dis- 
charged, and  wrote  verses  and  plays,  and  took  a 
small  office  in  Seville,  and  moved  with  the  Court  to 
Valladolid ;  and  kept  his  accounts  badly,  and  was 
too  honest  to  steal,  and  so  got  into  jail,  and  grew 
every  year  poorer  and  wittier  and  better ;  he  was  a 
pubhc  amanuensis,  a  business  agent,  a  sub-tax 
gatherer,  —  anything  to  keep  his  lean  larder  gar- 
nished with  scant  ammunition  against  the  wolf 
hunger.  In  these  few  lines  you  have  the  pitiful 
story  of  the  life  of  the  greatest  of  Spaniards,  up  to 
his  return  to  Madrid  in  1606,  when  he  was  nearly 
sixty  years  old. 

From  this  point  his  history  becomes  clearer  and 
more  connected  up  to  the  time  of  his  death.  He 
lived  in  the  new-built  suburb,  erected  on  the  site  of 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   297 

the  gardens  of  the  Duke  of  Lerma,  first  minister 
and  favorite  of  Philip  III.  It  was  a  quarter  much 
affected  by  artists  and  men  of  letters,  and  equally 
so  by  ecclesiastics.  The  names  of  the  streets  indi- 
cate the  traditions  of  piety  and  art  that  still  hallow 
the  neighborhood.  Jesus  Street  leads  you  into  the 
street  of  Lope  de  Vega.  Quevedo  and  Saint  Augus- 
tine run  side  by  side.  In  the  same  neighborhood 
are  the  streets  called  Cervantes,  Saint  Mary,  and 
Saint  Joseph,  and  just  round  the  corner  are  the 
Magdalen  and  the  Love-of-God.  The  actors  and 
artists  of  that  day  were  pious  and  devout  madcaps. 
They  did  not  abound  in  morality,  but  they  had  of 
religion  enough  and  to  spare.  Many  of  them  were 
members  of  religious  orders,  and  it  is  this  fact  which 
has  procured  us  such  accurate  records  of  their  his- 
tory. All  the  events  in  the  daily  life  of  the  relig- 
ious establishments  were  carefuUy  recorded,  and  the 
manuscript  archives  of  the  convents  and  brother- 
hood of  that  period  are  rich  in  materials  for  the 
biographer. 

There  was  a  special  reason  for  the  sudden  rise  of 
religious  brotherhoods  among  the  laity.  The  great 
schism  of  England  had  been  fully  completed  under 
Elizabeth.  The  devout  heart  of  Spain  was  bursting 
under  this  wrong,  and  they  could  think  of  no  way 
to  avenge  it.  They  would  fain  have  roasted  the 
whole  heretical  island,  but  the  memory  of  the 
Armada  was  fresh  in  men's  minds,  and  the  great 

13* 


298  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Philip  was  dead.  There  were  not  enough  heretics 
in  Spain  to  make  it  worth  while  to  waste  time  in 
hunting  them.  Philip  could  say  as  Narvaez,  on  his 
death-bed,  said  to  his  confessor  who  urged  him  to 
forgive  his  enemies,  "  Bless  your  heart,  I  have  none. 
I  have  killed  them  all."  To  ease  their  pious  hearts, 
they  formed  confraternities  all  over  Spain,  for  the 
worship  of  the  Host.  They  called  themselves  "  Un- 
worthy Slaves  of  the  Most  Holy  Sacrament."  These 
grew  at  once  very  popular  in  all  classes.  Artisans 
rushed  in,  and  wasted  half  their  working  days  in  pro- 
cessions and  meetings.  The  severe  Suarez  de  Fig- 
ueroa  speaks  savagely  of  the  crowd  of  Narcissuses 
and  petits  maitres  (a  word  which  is  delicious  in  its 
Spanish  dress  oi  petimetres)  who  entered  the  congre- 
gations simply  to  flutter  about  the  processions  in  brave 
raiment,  to  be  admired  of  the  multitude.  But  there 
were  other  more  serious  members,  —  the  politicians 
who  joined  to  stand  well  with  the  bigot  court,  and 
the  devout  believers  who  found  comfort  and  edifi- 
cation in  worship.  Of  this  latter  class  was  Miguel 
de  Cervantes  Saavedra,  who  joined  the  Brotherhood 
in  the  street  of  the  Olivar  in  1609.  He  was  now 
sixty-two  years  old,  and  somewhat  infirm,  —  a  time, 
as  he  said,  when  a  man's  salvation  is  no  joke. 
From  this  period  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  seemed 
to  be  laboring,  after  the  fashion  of  the  age,  to  fortify 
his  standing  in  the  other  world.  He  adopted  the 
habit  of  the  Franciscans   in  Alcala  in  1613,  and 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   299 

formally  professed  in  the  Third  Order  in  1616,  three 
weeks  before  his  death. 

There  are  those  who  find  the  mirth  and  fun  of  his 
later  works  so  inconsistent  with  these  ascetic  pro- 
fessions, that  they  have  been  led  to  believe  Cervan- 
tes a  bit  of  a  hypocrite.  But  we  cannot  agree  with 
such.  Literature  was  at  that  time  a  diversion  of 
the  great,  and  the  chief  aim  of  the  writer  was  to 
amuse.  The  best  opinion  of  scholars  now  is  that 
Eabelais,  whose  genius  illustrated  the  preceding 
century,  was  a  man  of  serious  and  severe  life,  whose 
gaulish  crudeness  of  style  and  brilliant  wit  have 
been  the  cause  of  all  the  fables  that  distort  his  per- 
sonal history.  No  one  can  read  attentively  even  the 
Quixote  without  seeing  how  powerful  an  influence 
was  exerted  by  his  religion  even  upon  the  noble  and 
kindly  soul  of  Cervantes.  He  was  a  blind  bigot 
and  a  devoted  royalist,  like  all  the  rest.  The  mean 
neglect  of  the  Court  never  caused  his  stanch 
loyalty  to  swerve.  The  expulsion  of  the  Moors,  the 
crowning  crime  and  madness  of  the  reign  of  Philip 
III.,  found  in  him  a  hearty  advocate  and  defender, 
Non  facit  monachum  cucullus,  —  it  was  not  his  hood 
and  girdle  that  made  him  a  monk;  he  was  thoroughly 
saturated  with  their  spirit  before  he  put  them  on. 
But  he  was  the  nobles^  courtier  and  the  kindhest 
bigot  tliat  ever  flattered  or  persecuted. 

In  1610,  the  Count  of  Lemos,  who  had  in  his 
grand  and  distant  way  pati'onized  the  poet,  was 


300  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

appointed  Viceroy  of  Naples,  and  took  with  him  to 
his  kingdom  a  brilliant  following  of  Spanish  wits 
and  scholars.  He  refused  the  petition  of  the  great- 
est of  them  all,  however,  and  to  soften  the  blow 
gave  him  a  small  pension,  which  he  continued 
during  the  rest  of  Cervantes's  life.  It  was  a  mere 
pittance,  a  bone  thrown  to  an  old  hound,  but  he 
took  it  and  gnawed  it  with  a  gratitude  more  gener- 
ous than  the  gift.  From  this  time  forth  all  his 
works  were  dedicated  to  the  Lord  of  Lemos,  and 
they  form  a  garland  more  brilliant  and  enduring 
than  the  crown  of  the  Spains.  Only  kind  words  to 
disguised  fairies  have  ever  been  so  munificently  re- 
paid, as  this  young  noble's  pension  to  the  old 
genius. 

It  certainly  eased  somewhat  his  declining  years. 
Eelieving  him  from  the  necessity  of  earning  his 
daily  crust,  it  gave  him  leisure  to  complete  and 
bring  out  in  rapid  succession  the  works  which  have 
made  him  immortal.  He  had  published  the  first 
part  of  Don  Quixote  in  the  midst  of  his  hungry 
poverty  at  Valladolid  in  1605.  He  was  then  fifty- 
eight,  and  all  his  works  that  survive  are  posterior 
to  that  date.  He  built  his  monument  from  the 
ground  up,  in  his  old  age.  The  Persiles  and  Sigis- 
munda,  the  Exemplary  Novels,  and  that  most  mas- 
terly and  perfect  work,  the  Second  Part  of  Quixote, 
were  written  by  the  flickering  glimmer  of  a  life 
burnt  out. 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES    301 

It  would  be  incorrect  to  infer  that  the  scanty  dole 
of  his  patron  sustained  him  in  comfort.  Nothing 
more  clearly  proves  his  straitened  circumstances 
than  his  frequent  change  of  lodgings.  Old  men  do 
not  move  for  the  love  of  variety.  We  have  traced 
him  through  six  streets  in  the  last  four  years  of  his 
life.  But  a  touching  fact  is  that  they  are  all  in  the 
same  quarter.  It  is  understood  that  his  natural 
daughter  and  only  child,  Isabel  de  Saavedra,  entered 
the  Convent  of  the  Trinitarian  nuns  in  the  street  of 
Cantarranas  —  Singing  Frogs  —  at  some  date  un- 
known. All  the  shifting  and  changing  which  Cer- 
vantes made  in  these  embarrassed  years  are  within 
a  small  half-circle,  whose  centre  is  his  grave  and  the 
cell  of  his  child.  He  fluttered  about  that  little 
convent  like  a  gaunt  old  eagle  about  the  cage  that 
guards  his  caUow  young. 

Like  Albert  Durer,  like  Eaphael  and  Vandyke,  he 
painted  his  own  portrait  at  this  time  with  a  force 
and  vigor  o£  touch  which  leaves  little  to  the  imagi- 
nation. As  few  people  ever  read  the  Exemplary 
Novels,  —  more  is  the  pity  —  I  wiU  translate  this 
passage  from  the  Prologue :  — 

"  He  whom  you  see  there  with  the  aquiline  face, 
chestnut  hair,  a  smooth  and  open  brow,  merry  eyes, 
a  nose  curved  but  well  proportioned,  a  beard  of 
silver  which  twenty  years  ago  was  of  gold,  long 
mustaches,  a  small  mouth,  not  too  full  of  teeth, 
seeing  he  has  but  six,  and  these  in  bad  condition,  a 


302  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

form  of  middle  height,  a  lively  color,  rather  fair 
than  brown,  somewhat  round-shouldered  and  not 
too  light  on  his  feet ;  this  is  the  face  of  the  author 
of  Galatea  and  of  Don  Quixote  de  la  Manch^,,  of 
him  who  made  the  Voyage  to  Parnassus,  and  other 
works  which  are  straying  about  without  the  name 
of  the  owner:  he  is  commonly  called  Miguel  de 
Cervantes  Saavedra." 

There  were,  after  all,  compensations  in  this  even- 
ing of  life.  As  long  as  his  dropsy  would  let  him, 
he  climbed  the  hilly  street  of  the  Olivar  to  say  his 
prayers  in  the  little  oratory.  He  passed  many  a 
cheerful  hour  of  gossip  with  mother  Francisca 
Eomero,  the  Independent  Superior  of  the  Trinita- 
rian Convent,  until  the  time  when  the  Supreme 
Council,  jealous  of  the  freedom  of  the  good  lady's 
life,  walled  up  the  door  which  led  from  her  house 
to  her  convent  and  cut  her  off  from  her  nuns.  He 
sometimes  dropped  into  the  studios  of  Carducho 
and  Caxes,  and  one  of  them  made  a  sketch  of  him 
one  fortunate  day.  He  was  friends  with  many  of 
the  easy-going  Bohemians  who  swarmed  in  the 
quarter,  —  Cristobal  de  Mesa,  Quevedo,  and  Men- 
doza,  whose  writings,  Don  Miguel  says,  are  distin- 
guished by  the  absence  of  all  that  would  bring  a 
"  blush  to  the  cheek  of  a  young  person," 

**Por  graves,  puros,  castos  y  excelentes." 

In  the  same  street  where  Cervantes  lived  and  died 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   303 

the  great  Lope  de  Vega  passed  his  edifying  old  age. 
This  phenomenon  of  incredible  fecundity  is  one  of 
the  mysteries  of  that  time.  Few  men  of  letters 
have  ever  won  so  marvellous  a  success  in  their  own 
lives,  few  have  been  so  little  read  after  death.  The 
inscription  on  Lope's  house  records  that  he  is  the 
author  of  two  thousand  comedies  and  twenty-one 
million  of  verses.  Making  all  possible  deductions 
for  Spanish  exaggeration,  it  must  still  be  admitted 
that  his  activity  and  fertility  of  genius  were  pro- 
digious. In  those  days  a  play  was  rarely  acted 
more  than  two  or  three  times,  and  he  wrote  nearly 
all  that  were  produced  in  Spain.  He  had  driven 
all  competitors  from  the  scene.  Cervantes,  when  he 
published  his  collection  of  plays,  admitted  the  im- 
possibility of  getting  a  hearing  in  the  theatre  while 
,  this  "  monster  of  nature "  existed.  There  was  a 
courteous  acquaintance  between  the  two  great 
poets.  They  sometimes  wrote  sonnets  to  each 
other,  and  often  met  in  the  same  oratories.  But 
a  grand  seigneur  like  Frey  Lope  could  not  afford  to 
be  intimate  with  a  shabby  genius  like  brother 
Miguel.  In  his  inmost  heart  he  thought  Don 
Quixote  rather  low,  and  wondered  what  people 
could  see  in  it.  Cervantes,  recognizing  the  great 
gifts  of  De  Vega,  and,  generously  giving  him  his 
full  meed  of  praise,  saw  with  clearer  insight  than 
any  man  of  his  time  that  this  deluge  of  prodigal 
and  facile  genius  would  desolate  rather  than  fructify 


304  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

the  drama  ot  Spain.  What  a  contrast  in  character 
and  destiny  between  our  dilapidated  poet  and  his 
brilliant  neighbor  across  the  way !  The  one  rich, 
magnificent,  the  poet  of  princes  and  a  prince  among 
poets,  the  "  Phoenix  of  Spanish  Genius,"  in  whose 
ashes  there  is  no  flame  of  resurrection ;  the  other, 
hounded  through  life  by  unmerciful  disaster,  and 
using  the  brief  respite  of  age  to  achieve  an  en- 
during renown ;  the  one,  with  his  twenty  millions 
of  verses,  has  a  great  name  in  the  history  of  litera- 
ture ;  but  the  other,  with  his  volume  you  can  carry 
in  your  pocket,  has  caused  the  world  to  call  the 
Castilian  tongue  the  language  of  Cervantes.  We 
will  not  decide  which  lot  is  the  more  enviable.  But 
it  seems  a  poet  must  choose.  We  have  the  high 
authority  of  Sancho  for  saying,  — 

"  Para  dar  y  tener 
Seso  ha  menester." 

He  is  a  bright  boy  who  can  eat  his  cake  and  have  it. 
In  some  incidents  of  the  closing  scenes  of  these 
memorable  lives  there  is  a  curious  parallelism.  Lope 
de  Vega  and  Cervantes  lived  and  died  in  the  same 
street,  now  called  the  Calle  de  Cervantes,  and  were 
buried  in  the  same  convent  of  the  street  now  called 
Calle  de  Lope  de  Vega.  In  this  convent  each  had 
placed  a  beloved  daughter,  the  fruit  of  an  early 
and  unlawful  passion.  Isabel  de  Saavedra,  the 
child  of  sin  and  poverty,  was  so  ignorant  she  could 
not   sign  her  name;  while   Lope's   daughter,  the 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   305 

lovely  and  gifted  Marcela  de  Carpio,  was  ricli  in 
the  genius  of  her  father  and  the  beauty  of  her 
mother,  the  high-born  Maria  de  Lujan.  Cervantes's 
child  glided  from  obscurity  to  oblivion  no  one  knew 
when,  and  the  name  she  assumed  with  her  spiritual 
vows  is  lost  to  tradition.  But  the  mystic  espousals 
of  the  sister  Marcela  de  San  Felix  to  the  eldest  son 
of  God  —  the  audacious  phrase  is  of  the  father  and 
priest  Frey  Lope  —  were  celebrated  with  princely 
pomp  and  luxury;  grandees  of  Spain  were  her 
sponsors;  the  streets  were  invaded  with  carriages 
from  the  palace,  the  verses  of  the  dramatist  were 
sung  in  the  service  by  the  Court  tenor  Florian, 
called  the  "  Canary  of  Heaven " ;  and  the  event 
celebrated  in  endless  rhymes  by  the  genteel  poets 
of  the  period. 

Earely  has  a  lovelier  sacrifice  been  offered  on  the 
altar  of  superstition.  The  father,  who  had  been 
married  twice  before  he  entered  the  priesthood,  and 
who  had  seen  the  folly  of  errant  loves  without  num- 
ber, twitters  in  the  most  innocent  way  about  the 
beauty  and  the  charm  of  his  child,  without  one 
thought  of  the  crime  of  quenching  in  the  gloom  of 
the  cloister  the  light  of  that  rich  young  life.  After 
the  lapse  of  more  than  two  centuries  we  know  bet- 
ter than  he  what  the  world  lost  by  that  life-long 
imprisonment.  The  Marquis  of  Molins,  Director 
of  the  Spanish  Academy,  was  shown  by  the  ladies 
of  the  convent  in  this  year  of  1870  a  volume  of 


306  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

manuscript  poems  from  the  hand  of  Sor  Marcela, 
which  prove  her  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  vigorous 
and  original  poets  of  the  time.  They  are  chiefly  mys- 
tical and  ecstatic,  and  full  of  the  refined  and  spirit- 
ual voluptuousness  of  a  devout  young  heart  whose 
pulsations  had  never  learned  to  beat  for  earthly  ob- 
jects. M.  de  Molins  is  preparing  a  volume  of  these 
manuscripts  ;  but  I  am  glad  to  present  one  of  the 
seguidillas  here,  as  an  illustration  of  the  tender  and 
ardent  fantasies  of  virginal  passion  this  Christian 
Sappho  embroidered  upon  the  theme  of  her  wasted 
prayers ;  — 

**  Let  them  say  to  my  Lover 

That  here  I  lie  ! 
The  thing  of  his  pleasure, 
His  slave  am  I. 

Say  that  I  seek  him 

Only  for  love, 
And  welcome  are  tortures 
My  passion  to  prove. 

• 
"  Love  giving  gifts 

Is  suspicious  and  cold ; 
I  have  aZZ,  my  Beloved, 
When  thee  I  hold. 

**  Hope  and  devotion 
The  good  may  gain, 
I  am  but  worthy 
Of  passion  and  pain. 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.       307 

**  So  noble  a  Lord 

None  serves  in  vain,  — 
For  the  pay  of  my  lore 
Is  my  love's  sweet  pain. 

**  I  love  thee,  to  love  thee, 
No  more  I  desire. 
By  faith  is  nourished 
My  love's  strong  fire. 

**  I  kiss  thy  hands 

When  I  feel  their  blows. 
In  the  place  of  caresses 
Thou  givest  me  woes. 

"  But  in  thy  chastising 
Is  joy  and  peace, 
O  Master  and  Love, 

Let  thy  blows  not  cease  I 

"  Thy  beauty,  Beloved, 
With  scorn  is  rife  ! 
But  I  know  that  thou  lovest  me. 
Better  than  life. 

"  And  because  thou  lovest  me^ 
Lover  of  mine, 
Death  can  but  make  me 
Utterly  thine  I 

**  I  die  with  longing 
Thy  face  to  see ; 
Ah !  sweet  is  the  anguish 
Of  death  to  me  1 " 

This  is  a  long  digression,  but  it  will  be  forgiven 
by   those   who   feel   how  much  of  beautiful    and 


308  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

pathetic  there  is  in  the  memory  of  this  mute 
nightingale  dying  with  her  passionate  music  all 
unheard  in  the  silence  and  shadows.  It  is  to  me 
the  most  purely  poetic  association  that  clings  about 
the  grave  of  Cervantes. 

This  vein  of  mysticism  in  religion  had  been  made 
popular  by  the  recent  canonization  of  Saint  Theresa, 
the  ecstatic  nun  of  Avila.  In  the  ceremonies  that 
celebrated  this  event  there  were  three  prizes  award- 
ed for  odes  to  the  new  saint.  Lope  de  Vega  was 
chairman  of  the  committee  of  award,  and  Cervantes 
was  one  of  the  competitors.  The  prizes  it  must  be 
admitted  were  very  tempting  :  first,  a  silver  pitcher ; 
second,  eight  yards  of  camlet ;  and  third,  a  pair  of 
silk  stockings.  We  hope  Cervantes's  poem  was  not 
the  best.  We  would  rather  see  him  carry  home  the 
stuff  for  a  new  cloak  and  pourpoint,  or  even  those 
very  attractive  silk  stockings  for  his  shrunk  shank, 
than  that  silver  pitcher  which  he  was  too  Castilian 
ever  to  turn  to  any  sensible  use.  The  poems  are 
published  in  a  compendium  of  the  time,  without 
indicating  the  successful  ones;  and  that  of  Cer- 
vantes contained  these  lines,  which  would  seem 
hazardous  in  this  colder  age,  but  which  then  were 
greatly  admired :  — 

**  Breaking  all  bolts  and  bars, 
Comes  the  Divine  One,  sailing  from  the  stars, 

Full  in  thy  sight  to  dwell : 
And  those  who  seek  him,  shortening  the  road 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   309 

Come  to  thy  blest  abode, 
And  find  him  in  thy  heart  or  in  thy  cell." 

The  anti-climax  is  the  poet's,  and  not  mine. 

He  knew  he  was  nearing  his  end,  but  worked 
desperately  to  retrieve  the  lost  years  of  his  youth, 
and  leave  the  world  some  testimony  of  his  powers. 
He  was  able  to  finish  and  publish  the  Second  Part 
of  Quixote,  and  to  give  the  last  touches  of  the  file 
to  his  favorite  work,  the  long-pondered  and  cher- 
ished Persiles.  This,  he  assures  Count  Lemos,  will 
be  either  the  best  or  the  worst  work  ever  produced  by 
mortal  man,  and  he  quickly  adds  that  it  will  not  be 
the  worst.  The  terrible  disease  gains  upon  him, 
laying  its  cold  hand  on  his  heart.  He  feels  the 
pulsations  growing  slower,  but  bates  no  jot  of  his 
cheerful  philosophy.  "  With  one  foot  in  the  stirrup," 
he  writes  a  last  farewell  of  noble  gratitude  to  the  vice- 
roy of  Naples.  He  makes  his  will,  commanding  that 
his  body  be  laid  in  the  Convent  of  the  Trinitarians. 
He  had  fixed  his  departure  for  Sunday,  the  17th  of 
April,  but  waited  six  days  for  Shakespeare,  and  the 
two  greatest  souls  of  that  age  went  into  the  unknown 
together,  on  the  23d  of  April,  1616. 

The  burial  of  Cervantes  was  as  humble  as  his 
christening.  His  bier  was  borne  on  the  shoulders 
of  four  brethren  of  his  order.  The  upper  half  of 
the  cofidn-lid  was  open  and  displayed  the  sharpened 
features  to  the  few  who  cared  to  see  them :  his  right 
hand  grasped  a  crucifix  with  the  grip  of  a  soldier. 


310  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Behind  the  grating  was  a  sobbing  nun  whose  name 
in  the  world  was  Isabel  de  Saavedra.  But  there  was 
no  scenic  effort  or  display,  such  as  a  few  years  later 
in  that  same  spot  witnessed  the  laying  away  of  the 
mortal  part  of  Vega-Carpio.  This  is  the  last  of  Cer- 
vantes upon  earth.  He  had  fought  a  good  fight.  A 
long  lif§  had  been  devoted  to  his  country's  service. 
In  his  youth  he  had  poured  out  his  blood,  and  dragged 
the  chains  of  captivity.  In  his  age  he  had  accom- 
plished a  work  which  folds  in  with  Spanish  fame 
the  orb  of  the  world.  But  he  was  laid  in  his  grave 
like  a  pauper,  and  the  spot  where  he  lay  was  quickly 
forgotten.  At  that  very  hour  a  vast  multitude  was 
assisting  at  what  the  polished  academician  calls  a 
"  more  solemn  ceremony,"  the  bearing  of  the  Virgin 
of  the  Atocha  to  the  Convent  of  San  Domingo  el 
Eeal,  to  see  if  peradventure  pleased  by  the  airing, 
she  would  send  rain  to  the  parching  fields. 

The  world  speedily  did  justice  to  his  name. 
Even  before  his  death  it  had  begun.  The  gentle- 
men of  the  French  embassy  who  came  to  Madrid 
in  1615  to  arrange  the  royal  marriages  asked  the 
chaplain  of  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo  in  his  first 
visit  many  questions  of  Miguel  Cervantes.  The 
chaplain  happened  to  be  a  friend  of  the  poet,  and  so 
replied,  "  I  know  him.  He  is  old,  a  soldier,  a  gen- 
tleman, and  poor."  At  which  they  wondered  greatly. 
But  after  a  while,  when  the  whole  civilized  world 
had  translated  and  knew  the  Quixote  by  heart,  the 


THE  CRADLE  AND  GRAVE  OF  CERVANTES.   311 

Spaniards  began  to  be  proud  of  the  genius  they  had 
neglected  and  despised.  They  quote  with  a  certain 
fatuity  the  eulogy  of  Montesquieu,  who  says  it  is  the 
only  book  they  have;  "a  proposition"  which  Nav- 
arrete  considers  "  inexact,"  and  we  agree  with  Nav- 
arrete.  He  has  written  a  good  book  himself.  The 
Spaniards  have  very  frankly  accepted  the  judgment 
of  the  world,  and  although  they  do  not  read  Cervan- 
tes much,  they  admire  him  greatly,  and  talk  about 
him  more  than  is  amusing.  The  Spanish  Academy 
has  set  up  a  pretty  mural  tablet  on  the  facade  of  the 
convent  which  shelters  the  tired  bones  of  the  un- 
lucky immortal,  enjoying  now  their  first  and  only 
repose.  In  the  Plaza  of  the  Cortes  a  fine  bronze 
statue  stands  facing  the  Prado,  catching  on  his  chis- 
elled curls  and  forehead  the  first  rays  of  morning 
that  leap  over  the  hiU  of  the  Eetiro.  It  is  a  well- 
poised,  energetic,  chivalrous  figure,  and  Mr.  Ger- 
mond  de  Lavigne  has  criticised  it  as  having  more  of 
the  sabreur  than  the  savant.  The  objection  does 
not  seem  well  founded.  It  is  not  pleasant  for  the 
world  to  be  continually  reminded  of  its  meannesses. 
We  do  not  want  to  see  Cervantes's  days  of  poverty 
and  struggle  eternized  in  statues.  We  know  that 
he  always  looked  back  with  fondness  on  his  cam- 
paigning days,  and  even  in  his  decrepit  age  he  called 
himsilf  a  soldier.  If  there  were  any  period  in  that 
troubled  history  that  could  be  called  happy,  surely 
it  was  the  time  when  he  had  youth  and  valor  and 


312  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

hope  as  the  companions  of  his  toil.  It  would  have 
been  a  precious  consolation  to  his  cheerless  age  to 
dream  that  he  could  stand  in  bronze,  as  we  hope  he 
may  stand  for  centuries,  in  the  unchanging  bloom 
of  manhood,  with  the  cloak  and  sword  of  a  gentle- 
man and  soldier,  bathing  his  Olympian  brow  forever 
in  the  light  of  all  the  mornings,  and  gazing,  at 
evening,  at  the  rosy  reflex  flushing  the  east,  —  the 
memory  of  the  day  and  the  promise  of  the  dawn. 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN   THE   CORTES.  313 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN  THE  COETES. 

Any  one  entering  the  Session  Chamber  of  the 
Constituent  Cortes,  at  Madrid,  on  the  night  of  the 
19th  of  March,  1870,  would  have  observed  a  state 
of  anxious  interest  very  different  from  the  usual 
listlessness  of  that  body.  For  a  week  or  two  be- 
fore, the  Budget  had  been  under  discussion.  The 
galleries  were  deserted.  The  hall  showed  a  vast 
desert  of  red-plush  benches.  A  half-dozen  con- 
scientious members,  with  a  taste  for  figures,  cried 
in  the  wilderness,  where  there  was  no  one  to  listen 
but  the  reporters.  Spanish  finances  are  not  a  cheer- 
ful subject,  especially  to  Spaniards.  So  while  these 
most  important  matters  were  under  discussion,  the 
members  lounged  in  the  lobbies,  and  gave  them- 
selves up  to  their  cigarettes,  and  the  idle  public 
shunned  the  tribunes,  as  if  the  red  and  yellow 
banner  of  the  Spains  that  waved  above  the  marble 
portico  were  a  hospital  flag. 

But  on  this  night  the  galleries  were  crammed. 
The  members  were  all  in  their  places.  The  gas- 
light danced  merrily  on  the  polished  skulls.  I  have 
never  seen  so  remarkable  a  disproportion  between 
gray  hairs  and  bare  pates  as  in  this  assembly.    There 

14 


314  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

are  scarcely  half  a  dozen  white  heads  in  the  house, 
while  a  large  majority  are  bald.  This  rapid  in- 
crease of  calvity  is  one  of  the  most  curious  symp- 
toms of  the  unnatural  life  of  our  day.  Formerly  a 
hairless  head  was  a  phenomenon.  The  poet  men- 
tions this  feature  of  Uncle  Ned  as  a  striking  proof 
of  his  extreme  age.  A  king  of  France  who  was  de- 
ficient in  chevehcre  passed  into  history  as  Charles  the 
Bald.  But  now  half  the  young  bucks  in  a  Parisian 
cotillon  go  spinning  about  the  room  bareheaded  as 
dancing  dervishes.  In  fact,  wearing  hair  is  getting 
to  be  considered  in  the  gay  world  as  quaint  and 
rococo.  The  billiard-ball  is  the  type  of  the  modish 
sconce  of  the  period.  C'est  mieux  porte,  says  the 
languid  swell  of  Sardou.  This  is  perhaps  one  effect 
of  the  club  life  and  cafe  life  of  the  time,  —  the  turn- 
ing of  night  into  day,  —  burning  the  candle  of  life 
at  both  ends  and  whittling  at  the  middle.  Nowhere 
is  this  persecution  of  the  very  principle  of  life  car- 
ried farther  than  in  Spain.  The  frugality  of  the 
Spaniards  only  aggravates  the  evil.  I  believe  these 
long  nights  in  the  crowded  cafes,  passed  in  smoking 
countless  cigarettes  and  drinking  seas  of  cheap  and 
mild  slops,  are  more  deteriorating  to  the  nervous 
system  than  the  mad,  wild  sprees  of  the  American 
frontiersmen. 

The  Hall  of  Sessions  is  a  very  pretty  semicircular 
room,  the  seats  of  the  members  being  arranged  in  a 
half-amphitheatre  facing .  the  President's  desk.     To 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  315 

the  left  of  the  President  sit  the  irreconcilable  Repub- 
licans, next  to  them  the  Democrats,  then  the  Carl- 
ists  and  the  Union  Liberals,  and  finally,  on  the  ex- 
treme right  heel  of  the  curving  horseshoe,  the 
Progresistas  and  the  Blue  Bench  of  the  Ministers. 

The  Ministerial  Bench  is  so  full  to-night  that  you 
cannot  see  the  blue  velvet.  At  its  head  sits  a  slight, 
dark  man,  with  a  grave,  thin-whiskered  face  and 
serious  black  clothes,  looking,  as  an  observing  friend 
of  mine  once  said,  "  like  a  pious  and  sympathizing 
undertaker."  He  holds  in  his  dark-gloved  hands  a 
little  black-and-silver  cane,  with  which  he  thought- 
fully taps  his  neat  and  glossy  boot.  The  whole 
manner  and  air  of  the  man  is  sober  and  clerical 
Bienfol  est  qui  dy  fie.  This  is  the  President  of  the 
Council,  Minister  of  War,  Captain-General  of  the 
armies  of  Spain,  the  Count  of  Reus,  the  Marquis 
of  Castillejos,  Don  Juan  Prim,  in  short.  A  soldier, 
conspirator,  diplomatist,  and  born  ruler ;  a  Crom- 
well without  convictions ;  a  dictator  who  hides  his 
power;  a  Warwick  who  mars  kings  as  tranquilly 
as  he  makes  them.  We  shall  see  more  of  him 
before  the  evening  is  over,  much  more  before  the 
year  ends. 

Next  to  Marshal  Prim  is  Admiral  Topete,  the 
brave  and  magnanimous  soldier  who  opened  to  the 
exiled  generals  the  gates  of  Spain,  and  made  the 
Revolution  possible.  It  was  the  senseless  outrage 
perpetrated  upon  the  generals  of  the  Union  Liberal, 


316  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

arresting  and  exiling  them  to  the  Canaries,  which 
drove  that  party  at  last  into  open  rebellion.  When, 
still  later,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Montpensier 
were  sent  out  of  Spain,  Admiral  Topete  was  charged 
with  the  duty  of  conveying  them  to  Portugal.  He 
came  back  to  his  post  at  Cadiz  the  determined 
enemy  of  the  late  government  and  the  earnest 
partisan  of  Montpensier.  In  this  scandalous  town 
improper  motives  are  of  course  attributed  to  all 
public  men.  But  it  is  ellough  to  look  in  the  frank, 
bluff  face  of  Topete,  to  see  that  he  is  a  man  much 
more  easily  influenced  by  generous  impulses  than 
by  any  hope  of  gain.  He  is  no  politician.  He  has 
no  clear  revolutionary  perceptions.  He  is  a  bigoted 
adherent  of  the  Church.  But  he  saw  the  country 
dishonored  by  its  profligate  rulers.  He  saw  decent 
citizens  outraged  and  banished  by  the  caprice  of 
power.  He  went  with  his  whole  soul  into  the 
conspiracy  that  was  to  right  this  wrong,  not  looking 
far  beyond  his  honest  and  chivalrous  nose.  The 
conspiracy  was  conducted  by  Prim  with  wonderful 
secrecy  and  skill ;  and  as  if  fortune  had  grown  tired 
of  baffling  him,  the  most  remarkable  luck  favored 
all  his  combinations.  He  and  Serrano  and  Dulce, 
from  their  far  distant  exiles,  arrived  the  same  night 
on  board  Topete's  flag-ship  in  the  Bay  of  Cadiz,  and 
the  next  morning  the  band  that  played  the  forbidden 
Hymn  of  Eiego  on  the  deck  of  the  Saragossa  crum- 
bled the  Bourbon  dynasty  with  its  lively  vibrations 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN  THE   CORTES.  317 

Earns'  horns  are  as  good  as  rifled  cannon,  when  the 
walls  are  ready  to  fall. 

Topete  has  preserved  his  consistency  unspotted 
ever  since.  He  left  the  Cabinet  when  the  candida- 
ture of  the  Duke  of  Genoa  was  resolved  upon,  and 
only  returned  upon  the  express  provision  that  he 
came  in  as  an  adherent  of  Montpensier.  He  has 
refused  all  favors,  decorations,  or  promotions.  He 
has  fought  all  the  advances  which  have  been  made 
in  the  way  of  religious  liberty,  and  proved  himself 
on  aU  occasions  a  true  friend,  a  true  Catholic,  and 
the  most  honest  and  awkward  of  politicians.  The 
caricaturists  are  especially  fond  of  him,  usually 
representing  him  as  a  jolly  Jack  Tar,  with  tarpaulin 
and  portentous  shirt-collars,  and  a  vast  spread  of 
white  duck  over  the  stern  sheets.  La  Flaca  recent- 
ly had  an  irresistible  sketch,  representing  the  gal- 
lant Admiral  as  an  Asturian  nurse  with  a  dull  baby 
lying  in  her  capacious  bosom,  bearing  an  absurd  un- 
likeness  to  the  Duke  of  Montpensier. 

We  have  dwelt  inordinately  upon  Topete,  but  he 
is  well  worth  knowing,  and  you  will  see  him  no  more 
after  to-nignt  on  the  Banco  Azul. 

Next  to  him  a  burly  frame,  crowned  by  a  round- 
cropped  bullet  head  lighted  up  by  brilliant,  sunken 
eyes ;  the  face  and  voice  and  manner  of  the  waggish 
A-ndalusian.  This  is  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  ; 
the  man  who  holds  in  his  hand  the  thrilling  heart- 
strings of  aU  Spain,  who  feels  the  pulse  of  the  peo- 


818  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

pie  as  he  used  to  touch  the  throbbing  wrist  of  a 
patient ;  for  Don  Nicolas  Maria  Eivero  has  been 
doctor  and  lawyer  and  orator  before,  through  the 
school  of  conspiracy,  he  was  graduated  as  states- 
man. He  is  a  brilliant  and  impressive  talker,  and 
.was  the  idol  of  the  advanced  democracy  until  suc- 
cess and  office  had  exercised  upon  him  their  chasten- 
ing influence.  He  led  the  poU  in  Madrid  when 
elected  Deputy,  leaving  behind  him  those  Dii 
majores  of  the  Eevolution,  Prim  and  Serrano.  He 
is  a  hearty  and  generous  host,  and  hates  a  dull 
table.  An  invitation  from  him  is  never  declined. 
"What  a  culinary  symphony  his  dinners  are,  and 
what  exquisite  appreciation  has  presided  over  the 
provision  of  his  cellar!  Besides  the  best  wines 
from  beyond  the  Pyrenees,  you  find  in  their  highest 
perfection  on  his  table  the  native  wines  of  Spain, 
the  Montilla,  with  its  delicate  insinuation  of  creo- 
sote, and  the  wonderful  old  Tio  Pepe  Amontillado, 
with  its  downright  assertion  of  ether;  and,  better 
than  these  tours  deforce  of  dryness,  the  full-bodied, 
rich-flavored  vintages  of  Jerez  and  Malaga. 

There  is  still  so  much  good  stuff  in  Eivero,  that 
it  seems  a  pity  the  Eepublicans  have  lost  him.  They 
are  very  bitter  upon  him,  because  they  once  valued 
him  so  highly.  He  has,  in  spite  of  his  place  and 
his  daily  acts,  a  seemingly  genuiae  regard  for  law 
and  justice.  In  the  autumn  of  1869,  when  the 
constitutional  guaranties  had  been  suspended,  Sa- 


A   FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  319 

gasta,  the  familiar  spirit  and  dme  damn^e  of  Prim, 
who  then  filled  the  chair  of  the  Gobernacion,  planned 
the  arrest  of  all  the  Eepublican  members.  Eivero, 
then  President  of  the  Cortes,  getting  wind  of  this, 
went  in  a  whirling  rage  to  Prim  and  denounced  the 
measure  roundly  as  a  folly  and  a  crime,  and  de- 
manded the  revocation  of  the  order.  Prim  shrugged 
his  narrow  shoulders  and  said :  "  Sagasta  thinks  it 
is  necessary.  Go  and  talk  to  him."  To  Sagasta 
posted  Eivero,  and  fired  his  volley  at  him.  The 
venomous  Minister  talked  back.  "  Confound  them, 
they  deserve  it.  Some  of  them  are  plotting  treason. 
Others  would  if  they  dared.  They  are  all  a  worth- 
less lot  any  how.  It  will  do  them  no  harm  to  pass 
a  week  or  two  in  jaiL"  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done  with  so  airy  a  demon  as  this.  Eivero  went 
back  to  Prim,  and  by  sheer  screaming  and  bullying 
had  the  matter  called  up  before  the  Council.  In 
the  mean  time  he  and  Martos  put  the  threatened 
men  on  their  guard,  and  not  a  Eepublican  slept  in 
his  house  that  night.  They  were  distributed  aroimd 
among  personal  and  political  friends,  and  enemies, 
also ;  for  the  true  Spaniard  never  refuses  the  shelter 
he  may  have  to  ask  to-morrow.  The  Minister  took 
no  deputies  that  night,  and  the  next  morning  Eivero 
went  to  the  Council,  his  neck  clothed  with  thunder. 
They  say  he  smashed  the  top  of  a  mahogany  table 
with  the  fury  of  his  expounding.  He  threatened 
to  caU  the  Cortes  together  and  resign  in  fuU  session^ 


320  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

giving  liis  reasons.  The  Ministry  yielded,  —  prob- 
ably to  save  the  furniture,  —  and  the  order  was  re- 
voked, to  the  undoubted  disgust  of  Mr.  Sagasta,  who 
felt,  we  may  imagine,  as  a  cat  does  when  she  sees  a 
fat  mouse  playing  about  the  floor,  and  dares  not  de- 
vour him  for  fear  of  waking  the  bulldog,  asleep  with 
his  dangerous  muzzle  between  his  paws. 

Sagasta  is  now  sitting  beside  Kivero.  In  the  re- 
cent new  shuffle  of  the  court  cards  he  was  trans- 
ferred from  the  Interior  to  Foreign  Affairs,  —  sent 
into  exile,  as  he  calls  it.  This  has,  it  is  said,  still 
further  soured  a  temper  which  was  not  deficient  in 
acidity  before.  He  is  thought  to  be  drifting  away 
from  Prim  into  the  ranks  of  the  reactionary  poli- 
ticians. He  has  a  dark  wrinkled  face,  small  bright 
eyes,  the  smile  and  the  scowl  of  Mephistopheles. 
He  is  a  most  vigorous  and  energetic  speaker,  but  so 
aggressive  and  pungent  in  his  style  that  he  rarely 
fails  to  raise  a  tempest  in  the  languid  house  when 
he  speaks  at  any  length.  He  has  a  hearty  contempt 
for  the  people  and  a  firm  reliance  upon  himself,  — 
two  important  elements  of  success  for  a  Latin 
statesman. 

Figuerola,  the  Minister  of  Finance,  and  Echega- 
ray,  the  Minister  of  Fomento,  or  Public  Works,  sit 
side  by  side;  both  tall  and  thin,  both  spectacled, 
both  bald,  both  men  of  great  learning  and  liberal 
tendencies.  They  were  savans,  lecturers,  essay- 
ists before  the  Kevolution,  and  often  seem  to  re- 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN  THE  CORTES.  321 

gret  the  quiet  of  their  libraries,  in  these  stormy- 
scenes. 

Mr.  Montero  Eios,  the  progressive  and  enlightened 
Minister  of  Grace  and  Justice,  comes  next,  and  the 
tale  of  Ministers  is  completed  by  the  Colonial  Secre- 
tary, Mr.  Becerra,  a  short,  stocky,  silent  man,  who 
used  to  be  a  great  orator  of  the  faubourg  and  barri- 
cade, but  has  now  come  to  take  what  he  calls  more 
serious  views  of  political  life.  He  is,  also,  a  new 
man  in  office.  He  was  a  schoolmaster.  He  is  a 
man  of  great  physical  nerve.  He  can  snuff  a  can- 
dle at  ten  paces,  firing  backward  over  his  shoulder. 
The  Eepublicans  call  him  a  renegade,  the  aristoc- 
racy call  him  a  parvenu.  He  has  an  ill-regulated 
habit  of  telling  the  truth  sometimes,  and  this  will, 
in  the  end,  cost  him  his  place. 

This  is  a  good  night  to  see  the  notabilities  of  the 
situation.  Fully  two  thirds  of  the  members  elect 
are  in  their  seats,  which  is  a  most  unusual  propor- 
tion. Many  of  the  deputies  never  occupy  their 
seats.  Some  are  attending  to  their  affairs  in  dis- 
tant provinces,  some  are  in  exile,  and  some  in  pris- 
on ;  for  the  life  of  a  Spanish  patriot  is  subject  to 
both  of  these  accidents.  But  of  those  who  can 
come,  few  are  away  to-night. 

On  the  extreme  left  of  the  chamber  is  a  young 
face  that  bears  an  unmistakable  seal  of  distinction. 
It  reminds  you  instantly  of  the  Stratford  bust  of  the 
greatest  of  the  sous  of  men.     The  same  pure  oval 

14«  D 


322  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

outline,  the  arched  eyebrows,  the  piled-up  dome  of 
forehead  stretching  outward  from  the  eyes,  until  the 
glossy  black  hair,  seeing  the  hopelessness  of  dis- 
puting the  field,  has  retired  discouraged  to  the  back 
of  the  head.  This  is  Emilio  Castelar,  the  inspired 
tribune  of  Spain.  This  people  is  so  given  to  exag- 
gerated phases  of  compliment,  that  the  highest-col- 
ored adjectives  have  lost  their  power.  They  have 
exhausted  their  lexicons  in  speaking  of  Castelar, 
but  in  this  instance  I  would  be  inclined  to  say  that 
exaggeration  was  wellnigh  impossible.  It  is  true 
that  Ids  speech  does  not  move  with  the  powerful 
convincing  momentum  of  the  greatest  English  and 
American  orators.  It  is  possible  that  its  very  bril- 
lancy  detracts  somewhat  from  its  effect  upon  a  legis- 
lative body.  When  you  see  a  Toledo  blade  aU 
damaskeened  with  frondage  and  flowers  and  stories 
of  the  gods,  you  are  apt  to  think  it  less  deadly  than 
one  glittering  in  naked  blueness  from  hilt  to  point. 
Yet  the  splendid  sword  is  apt  to  be  of  the  finest 
temper.  Whatever  may  be  said  of  his  enduring 
influence  upon  legislation,  it  seems  to  me  there  can 
be  no  difference  of  opinion  in  regard  to  his  tran- 
scendent oratorical  gifts.  There  is  something  almost 
superhuman  in  the  delivery.  He  is  the  only  man  I 
have  ever  seen  who  produces,  in  very  truth,  those 
astounding  effects  which  I  have  always  thought  the 
inventions  of  poets  and  the  exaggerations  of  biog- 
raphy.    Kobertson,  speaking  of  Pitt's  oratory,  said, 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN  THE   CORTES.  323 

"It  was  not  the  torrent  of  Demosthenes,  nor  the 
splendid  conflagration  of  TuUy."  This  ceases  to  be 
an  unmeaning  metaphor  when  you  have  heard 
Castelar.  His  speech  is  like  a  torrent  in  its  in- 
conceivable fluency,  like  a  raging  fire  in  its  bril- 
liancy of  color  and  energy  of  passion.  Never  for 
an  instant  is  the  wonderful  current  of  declama- 
tion checked  by  the  pauses,  the  hesitations,  the 
deliberations  that  mark  all  Anglo-Saxon  debate. 
An  entire  oration  will  be  delivered  with  precisely 
the  fluent  energy  which  a  veteran  actor  exhibits  in 
his  most  passionate  scenes ;  and  when  you  consider 
that  this  is  not  conned  beforehand,  but  is  struck  off 
instantly  in  the  very  heat  and  spasm  of  utterance, 
it  seems  little  short  of  inspiration.  The  most  elab- 
orate filing  of  a  fastidious  rhetorician  could  not  pro- 
duce phrases  of  more  exquisite  harmony,  antitheses 
more  sharp  and  shining,  metaphors  more  neatly  fit- 
ting, aU  uttered  with  a  distinct  rapidity  that  makes 
the  despair  of  stenographers.  His  memory  is  pro- 
digious and  under  perfect  discipline.  He  has  the 
world's  histoiy  at  his  tongue's  end.  No  fact  is  too 
insignificant  to  be  retained  nor  too  stale  to  do  ser- 
vice. 

His  action  is  also  most  energetic  and  impassioned. 
It  would  be  considered  redundant  in  a  Teutonic 
country.  If  you  do  not  understand  Spanish,  there 
is  something  almost  insane  in  his  gesticulation.  I 
remember  a  French  diplomat  who  came  to  see  him, 


324  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

in  one  of  his  happiest  days,  and  who,  after  looking 
intently  at  the  orator  for  a  half-hour  trying  to  see 
what  he  was  saying,  said  at  last  in  an  injured  tone, 
"  Mais !  c'est  un  polichinelle,  celui  la."  It  had  not 
occurred  to  me  that  he  had  made  a  gesture.  The 
whole  man  was  talking  from  his  head  to  his  feet. 

Finally,  as  we  cannot  stay  even  with  Castelar  all 
night,  his  greatest  and  highest  claim  to  our  admira- 
tion and  regard  is  that  his  enormous  talents  have 
been  consistently  devoted  from  boyhood  to  this  hour 
to  the  cause  of  political  and  spiritual  freedom.  He 
is  now  only  thirty-two  years  of  age,  but  he  was  an 
orator  at  sixteen.  He  harangued  the  mobs  of  1854 
with  a  dignity  and  power  that  contrasted  grotesque- 
ly with  his  boyish  figure  and  rosy  face.  During  all 
these  eventfid  yeai-s  he  has  not  for  one  moment  fal- 
tered in  his  devotion  to  liberal  ideas.  In  poverty, 
exile,  and  persecution,  as  well  as  amid  the  intoxi- 
cating fumes  of  flattery  and  favor,  he  has  kept  his 
faith  unsullied.  With  his  great  gifts,  he  might 
command  anything  from  the  government,  as  the 
price  of  his  support.  But  he  preserves  his  austere 
independence,  living  solely  upon  his  literary  labor 
and  his  modest  salary  as  Professor  of  History  in  the 
University. 

Beside  him  is  Figueras,  the  Parliamentary  leader 
of  the  Eepubhcans,  a  tall,  large-framed  man,  with  a 
look  of  lazy  power.  He  is  a  fine  lawyer,  an  able 
and  ready  debater,  and  a  man  of  great  energy  of 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN  THE   CORTES.  325 

character.  He  is,  perhaps,  more  regarded  and  re- 
spected by  t^e  monarchical  side  of  the  house  than 
any  other  Eepublican.  Pi  y  Margall  is  another 
strong  and  hard  hitter  of  the  left.  He  has  a  hoarse, 
husky  voice,  a  ragged  and  grizzled  beard,  and  grave, 
ascetic-looking  square  spectacles.  If  you  met  him 
in  Broadway  you  would  call  him.  a  professor  of 
mathematics  in  a  young  and  unsuccessful  Western 
college. 

The  centre  of  the  hall  is  occupied  by  the  deputies 
of  the  Liberal  Union.  Immediately  under  the 
clock  sits  Kios  Eosas,  the  leading  orator  of  that 
party,  an  iron-gray  man  of  middle  age,  an  energetic 
and  effective  speaker ;  Silvela,  a  tall,  handsome,  at- 
torney-like person,  reposing  from  the  fatigues  of 
the  afternoon ;  he  has  made  a  great  speech  to-day, 
and  may  have  to  make  another  before  midnight; 
Juan  Valera,  the  courtly  Academician;  Lopez  de 
Ayala,  who  has  had  such  success  as  a  poet  and  such 
a  failure  as  a  statesman,  and  who  looks  like  the 
romantic  Spaniards  of  young  ladies'  sketch-books. 
Swinging  farther  round  the  horseshoe,  you  find  the 
compact  phalanx  of  Prim's  supporters,  the  Prog- 
resistas  and  Monarchical  Democrats,  now  fused  into 
one  solid  organization  called  Eadicals.  Among 
them  are  the  generals  of  the  Eevolution,  Cordova, 
Izquierdo,  and  Peralta,  and  the  white-haired  veteran 
conspirator  Milans  del  Bosch  (say  Bosk,  if  you 
please),  who  has  been  in  every  insurrection  since  he 


326  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

was  a  boy.  He  is  a  gallant,  hearty,  prodigal  fellow, 
always  giving  and  never  gaining,  and  so  was  ap- 
proaching an  impecunious  old  age,  when  suddenly 
a  few  weeks  ago  an  old  officer  whom  he  only  slight- 
ly knew  died,  like  an  uncle  in  a  fifth  act,  and  left 
him  a  large  fortune ;  and  there  was  not  probably  a 
man  in  Madrid  who  was  not  glad  to  hear  it.  An- 
other noticeable  figure  is  that  of  Don  Pascual  Ma- 
doz,  the  tenacious  advocate  of  the  election  of  Es- 
partero  to  the  crown.  I  have  never  seen  a  man 
who  looked  so  old.  He  has  no  hair  whatever  on 
his  face,  head,  or  brows.  His  pink  skull  shines  like 
varnished  parchment.  He  sits  ordinarily  with  his 
head  tipped  torpidly  over  on  his  breast,  as  if  lost  in. 
recollections  of  the  time  of  his  contemporary  Adri- 
an. But,  in  fact,  he  is  still  an  able  and  vigorous 
politician.  Near  him  lies  sprawled  over  half  a 
bench  the  enormous  bulk  of  Coronel  y  Ortiz,  whom 
you  would  call  fifty  from  his  waist  and  his  gray 
hairs,  but  who  is  really  but  six-and-twenty,  barely 
the  legal  age  of  a  voter  in  Spain. 

The  handsomest  man  in  the  house,  the  enfant 
gate  of  the  Eadicals,  is  the  young  Subsecretary  of 
the  Interior,  who  will  succeed  Becerra  as  Colonial 
Secretary,  Moret  y  Prendergast.  He  is  six  feet 
high,  built  like  a  trapeze  performer,  with  a  classi- 
cal, clear-cut  face ;  and  like  all  men  of  great  per- 
sonal beauty,  he  has  the  most  easy  and  elegant  man- 
ners.    He  was  a  comrade  and  associate  of  Castelar 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  327 

before  the  Eevolution,  but  has  since  given  in  his 
adhesion  to  the  monarchy,  and  is  one  of  their  most 
ready  and  brilliant  speakers.  They  usually  put  him 
into  the  lists  against  his  eloquent  friend.  But  there 
is  no  resemblance  between  the  men.  Moret  pos- 
sesses in  the  highest  degree  the  Southern  fluency 
and  ease  of  diction.  His  delivery  is  also  most  grace- 
ful and  pleasing.  But  he  speaks  utterly  without 
passion  or  conviction.  His  talk  is  all,  as  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  would  say,  "  from  the  teeth  outward."  A  speech 
from  him  is  as  clear  and  easy-gushing  as  the  jet 
from  a  garden-fountain,  full  of  bright  lights  and 
prismatic  flashes,  but  it  is  also  as  cold  and  purpose- 
less. 

It  will  require  a  moment  to  explain  why  there  is 
such  a  gathering  of  the  clans  to-night.  The  bill 
which  now  occupies  the  attention  of  the  chamber  is 
of  the  character  which  your  true  Spaniard  loathes 
and  scorns.  It  is  a  bill  for  raising  money.  Of 
course  a  parliament  of  office-holders  recognize  the 
necessity  of  the  treasury's  being  filled.  But  they 
usually  prefer  to  let  the  Finance  Minister  have  his 
own  way  about  filling  it,  theirs  being  the  more 
seductive  task  of  emptying  it.  So  that  financial 
matters  are  usually  discussed  in  the  inspiring  pres- 
ence of  empty  benches. 

A  few  days  ago  Mr.  Figuerola,  whom  his  friends 
call  the  Spanish  Necker,  because,  as  Owen  Mere- 
dith once  observed,  it  was  neck  or  nothinf]^  with 


328  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

their  treasury,  introduced  a  bill  for  the  relief  of  the 
government  and  the  agonizing  municipal  councils, 
authorizing  the  government  to  negotiate  the  bonds 
remaining  over,  of  the  loan  of  1868,  and  those  lying 
in  the  Bank  of  Deposits  as  security  for  the  payment 
of  municipal,  individual,  and  provincial  taxes ;  and 
also  to  make  an  operation  of  credit  upon  the  mines 
of  Almaden  and  Eio  Tinto,  and  the  salt-works  of 
Torre  Vieja.  This  was,  it  is  true,  a  terrible  proposi- 
tion,  —  like  a  carpenter  pawning  his  tools  or  a 
lawyer  his  library;  but  it  was  positively  nothing 
unusual  in  Spanish  finance.  Its  whole  history  con- 
sists in  these  desperate  authorizations,  trembling 
always  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy.  You  will  find 
in  the  Diplomatic  Correspondence  of  1842  a  state- 
ment of  a  battle  wonderfully  like  the  one  we  are  to 
witness  here  to-night.  Washington  Irving  writes 
that  the  Ministry  resolved  to  take  their  stand  "  on 
the  great  question  of  financial  reform.  Calatrava, 
the  Minister  of  Finance,  brought  forward  his  budget, 
showing  a  deficit  for  1843  of  about  twenty  millions 
of  doUars,  to  remedy  which  he  proposed,  among 
other  measures,  that  the  Cortes  should  authorize  the 
government  to  contract  for  a  loan  of  thirty  millions 
of  dollars,  hypothecating  all  the  revenues  and  con- 
tributions of  the  state." 

This  is  the  third  time  Mr.  Figuerola  has  come 
before  the  Cortes  asking  them  to  bandage  their  eyes 
and  give  him  the  keys  of  the  national  wealth.     In 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN   THE   CORTES.  329 

the  first  days  of  the  Eevolution  he  asked  to  be  au- 
thorized to  contract  a  loaii^  on  his  own  terms,  for 
fifty  million  dollars.  This  was  to  be  the  last. 
Shortly  afterwards  another  demand  was  made  for 
an  operation  on  tobacco  and  other  important  rev- 
enues. This  was  also  granted.  And  now,  at  this 
alarmingly  short  interval,  comes  this  third  summons 
to  the  nation  to  roll  up  its  sleeve  and  be  bled,  with- 
out explanations. 

The  most  remarkable  feature  to  foreign  eyes,  in 
all  these  authorizations,  is  that  no  man  in  Spain  but 
the  Minister  of  Hacienda  knows  how  much  these 
various  loans  produce.  There  exists  in  Paris  a  sin- 
gular and  mysterious  corporation  called  the  Bank 
of  Paris,  which  conducts  the  financial  operations  of 
the  Spanish  government.  The  process  is  said  to  be 
this  :  the  government,  having  obtained  its  authoriza- 
tion, applies  to  the  Bank  of  Paris  to  place  the  loan. 
It  places  in  the  vaults  of  the  Bank  a  sufficient 
quantity  of  its  own  bonds  on  hand  to  serve  as 
security  for  the  Bank  in  the  operation.  The  Bank 
puts  the  loan  on  the  market,  and  gets  its  commission. 
It  rehypothecates  the  hypothecated  bonds,  and  gets 
a  commission.  It  buys  the  bonds  on  its  own  ac- 
count, and  pays  itself  a  commission  for  the  sale ;  it 
sells  them  again  to  its  own  customers,  being  thus 
forced  reluctantly  to  pocket  another  commission.  To 
sustain  the  weight  of  the  loan  in  a  dull  market,  it 
is  forced  to  borrow  money  from  itseK  at  a  high  rate 


330  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

of  interest ;  and  every  such  ingenious  operation  re- 
sults in  this  self-sacrificing  corporation  increasing 
its  risks  and  perils  in  that  celestial  needle's-eye,  by 
the  additional  bulk  of  another  commission.  The 
sum  which  came  to  the  government  from  that  loan 
of  a  hundred  millions  is  as  profoundly  unknown  as 
"  what  song  the  sirens  sang."  Some  say  twenty-six, 
and  there  are  evil  tongues  that  assert  that  not  nine- 
teen millions  ever  entered  the  treasury. 

Still,  all  this  is  quite  regular  in  Spanish  politics, 
and  no  party  hitherto  has  ever  shown  a  disposition 
to  abolish  a  convenient  custom  from  which  each 
profits  while  in  power.  But  to-night  the  govern- 
ment is  evidently  greatly  alarmed  in  regard  to  the 
passage  of  the  bill.  Every  available  man  is  in  his 
place.  The  President  of  the  Council  has  for  sev- 
eral days  past  been  using  his  whole  arsenal  of  per- 
suasion of  threats  and  promises,  but  not  success- 
fully. The  opposition  is  of  the  most  kind  and 
courteous  character  that  can  be  imagined.  The 
amendment  presented  by  the  Liberal  Union,  and 
defended  to-day  in  a  long  and  powerful  speech  by 
Silvela,  is  apparently  as  innocent  and  reasonable  as 
possible.  It  merely  provides  that  the  conversion 
of  the  securities  in  the  Bank  of  Deposits  shall  be 
at  the  option  of  the  municipal  councils,  and  of 
individuals,  to  whom  they  belong ;  that  the  mines 
of  the  state  shall  not  be  themselves  hypothecated, 
but  only  their  products. 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  331 

It  would  seem  impossible  to  reject  so  reasonable 
and  moderate  a  proposition.  But  the  government 
has  determined  to  fight  its  battle  on  this  amend- 
ment. It  has  announced  that  it  will  make  the  vote 
a  Cabinet  question,  standing  or  falling  with  the  bill. 
The  Liberal  Union,  on  the  contrary,  protest  that 
nothing  is  further  from  their  minds  than  to  attack 
the  government ;  that  this  is  a  friendly  amendment 
which  the  government  ought  to  accept,  throwing 
over  the  Minister  of  Finance  if  necessary,  who  is 
leading  the  country  to  perdition.  This  was  the 
burden  of  Silvela's  dexterous  speech  this  afternoon. 
It  was  not  a  question  of  confidence  in  the  Ministry ; 
it  was  a  question  of  prerogative  in  the  Cortes.  The 
country  had  a  right  to  know  what  was  done  with 
its  money.  It  could  not  give  up  the  right  of  con- 
trol in  its  own  affairs ;  the  deputies  could  not  con- 
tinue forever  throwing  the  whole  national  wealth 
into  an  ever-yawning  crater. 

He  was  answered  with  great  energy  by  Mr. 
Figuerola,  who  contended  that  the  condition  of  the 
country  was  so  critical  that  the  operations  for  which 
authority  was  requested  must  be  made  solid  and  at 
once,  to  save  the  national  credit,  and  to  begin  the 
era  of  financial  reform.  Euiz  Gomez  also  defended 
the  report  of  the  committee,  and,  evidently  fresh 
from  the  reading  of  a  Congressional  Globe  of  thirty 
or  forty  years  ago,  he  rebuked  Mr.  Castelar  for  his 
apathy  in  financial  matters,  informing  him  that  to- 


332  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

day,  in  the  United  States,  Adams,  Jackson,  Clay, 
and  Madison  are  much  more  interested  in  questions 
of  tariff  and  slavery  compromise  than  in  Michael 
Angelo  and  the  Parthenon. 

The  session  closed  for  dinner  and  cigars,  and 
opened  again  about  ten  o'clock.  There  is  no  longer 
any  doubt  about  the  serious  nature  of  the  crisis. 
In  spite  of  all  the  fair  words  used,  the  fight  is  to 
be  a  final  and  desperate  one.  The  Liberal  Union, 
by  adhering  to  its  amendment  after  the  government 
has  declared  its  intention  to  stand  or  fall  with  the 
original  bill,  has  placed  itself  in  opposition.  It  is 
useless  for  it  to  declare  that  its  attitude  is  friendly, 
and  that  only  considerations  of  patriotism  have 
forced  it  to  take  this  position.  It  did  the  same 
thing  when  it  was  in  power,  and  would  do  it 
again  to-morrow.  All  parties  in  Spain  talk  of  re- 
trenchment and  reform,  but  all  adopt  a  policy  of 
expedients  and  makeshifts  as  soon  as  they  are  seat- 
ed on  the  Blue  Bench. 

Every  one  feels  that  the  hollow  truce  of  the  last 
year  and  a  half  is  over ;  that  the  coalition  of  the 
three  parties  that  made  the  Kevolution,  the  Progre- 
sista,  the  Liberal  Union,  and  the  Democrats,  is 
nearing  its  agony.  It  is  a  wonder  that  it  has  lasted 
so  long,  surviving  the  successive  shocks  of  univer- 
sal suffrage,  freedom  of  worship,  and  the  establish- 
ment of  individual  rights.  It  seems  a  marvel  to  us 
that  the  same  party  could  so  long  have  contained 


A   FIELD-NIGHT   IN  THE   CORTES.  333 

Martos  the  abolitionist,  and  Eomero  Robledo  the 
advocate  of  slavery,  Echegaray  the  rationalist,  and 
Ortiz  the  ultramontane,  men  who  worship  reason, 
and  men  who  worship  the  Pope,  men  who  insist 
that  human  rights  are  above  law,  and  men  who  be- 
lieve in  the  divine  right  of  kings.  But  the  power- 
ful cohesion  of  private  and  party  interests  have 
kept  them  together  so  far,  and  it  seems  as  if  these 
same  exigencies  were  to  sunder  them  to-night. 

On  one  side  is  the  government,  with  its  faithful 
cohort  of  Radicals ;  on  the  other  the  Liberal  Union, 
the  conservative  element  of  the  late  coalition,  which 
has  become  convinced  that  it  can  no  longer  control 
the  policy  of  the  majority,  and  has  therefore  ap- 
parently resolved  to  destroy  the  majority,  and  trust 
to  its  political  shrewdness  and  aptitude  to  build  up 
some  advantageous  combination  from  the  ruins ;  the 
Republicans,  who  can  consistently  support  the  Sil- 
vela  amendment,  as  it  merely  embodies  their  own 
principle  of  parliamentary  control ;  and  the  Carlists, 
the  partisans  of  the  absolute  royal  power,  who  strike 
hands  with  their  enemies  purely  from  opposition  to 
the  government:  a  most  heterogeneous  accidental 
compound,  and  one  on  which  no  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment could  be  founded,  if  it  should  succeed  in 
overthrowing  this  Cabinet. 

The  session  was  opened  by  a  speech  having  no 
reference  to  the  question.  Mr.  Puig  y  Llagostera, 
the  new  deputy  from  Catalonia,  was  to  have  made 


334  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

an  interpellation  in  the  afternoon,  but  was  cleverly 
thrown  out  by  the  ruling  of  the  President,  and  his 
speech  postponed  until  the  evening.  It  was  a  dan- 
gerous experiment  for  any  man  to  try  to  gain  the 
attention  of  an  assembly  in  such  a  state  of  tense 
expectancy.  But  this  brilliant,  wild  Catalan  feared 
nothing,  and,  as  the  result  showed,  had  nothing  to 
fear.  He  made  one  of  the  most  remarkable  speeches, 
in  severity,  in  feverish  eloquence,  in  naive  paradox, 
that  was  ever  addressed  to  an  assembly  claiming  to 
be  deUberative.  It  was  an  attack  upon  the  govern- 
ment all  along  the  line.  Whatever  was,  was  wrong. 
He  is  a  large  manufacturer,  employs  a  great  num- 
ber of  operatives,  and  is  a  man  of  limited  education, 
but  great  natural  talents.  He  believes,  as  many 
Catalans  do,  that  Spain  cannot  exist  without  a  high 
protective  tariff.  He  therefore  thinks  that  Mr. 
Figuerola,  who  leans  toward  free  trade,  is  the  evil 
genius  of  the  country;  and  so  when  young  Paul 
Bosch,  who  is  son-in-law  to  the  Minister  of  Finance, 
came  down  from  Madrid,  in  the  innocence  of  his 
heart,  to  be  elected  deputy,  the  fiery  Catalan  entered 
the  lists  against  him,  and,  supported  by  Eepublican 
votes,  was  elected.  He  is  in  no  true  sense  a  Eepub- 
lican ;  it  would  puzzle  him  to  define  his  politics. 
He  wants  food  cheap  for  the  benefit  of  his  opera- 
tives, and  grain  dear  for  the  benefit  of  farmers.  He 
recognizes  the  difficulties  of  the  problem,  and  calls 
loudly  on  the  government  to  solve  it. 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  335 

I  have  never  seen  anything  so  like  Gwynplaine 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  —  this  earnest,  brilliant, 
honest  man,  with  his  whole  heart  in  his  words, 
coming  up  from  his  fellow-workers,  grimed  with  the 
smoke  of  his  factories,  to  deliver  to  the  faineant 
gentleman  of  the  Cortes  the  message  of  the  toilers 
and  the  sufferers. 

The  beginning  of  his  speech  was  unique.  He 
begins  by  resigning  his  charge  of  deputy.  He  has 
come  to  give  them  an  hour  of  candor,  and  wiU  then 
go  back  to  his  people. 

He  has  not  come,  he  says,  to  ask  the  government 
questions  about  the  state  of  the  country.  He  has 
come  to  tdl  them ;  —  in  one  word,  misery.  "  You, 
my  lords  Ministers,  may  think  this  exaggeration. 
I  tell  you,  while  you  are  sitting  comfortably  in  your 
jewelled  palaces,  the  majority  of  the  Spanish  peo- 
ple have  no  clothes  to  wear  nor  bread  to  eat. 
Among  the  working  classes  poverty  is  becoming 
famiQe  ;  in  what  you  call  good  society,  the  paupers 
in  frock-coats  are  the  majority.  Do  not  judge  from 
Madrid,  with  its  four  armies,  soldiers,  office-holders, 
pensioners,  and  harlots,  who  all  have  enough  and  to 
spare.  Go  into  the  provinces  and  see  the  people, 
who  beg  in  shame  or  starve  in  pride. 

"  And  to  this  hungry  people  Mr.  Figuerola  says, 
for  their  consolation,  that '  the  grass  is  beginning  to 
grow.'  For  the  gentleman  of  the  budget,  I  doubt 
not  that  the  grass  is  growing  rank  and  green ;  but 


336  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

for  the  country,  Mr.  Figuerola,  it  is  the  graveyard 
grass  that  is  growing  !  " 

He  went  on  to  show  how  the  misery  of  the  land 
was  due  to  the  bad  management  of  the  treasury, 
leaving  industry  and  agriculture  without  sufficient 
protection.  "  For  want  of  corn-tax  the  kingdom  is 
flooded  with  the  products  of  the  Danube ;  and  the 
Spanish  farmer  perishes  in  poverty  among  his  grain- 
sacks.  It  is  not  the  blighting  winds  nor  the  mould- 
ering rains,  farmers  of  Spain !  that  rob  you  of  the 
fruit  of  your  toil ;  it  is  the  law ;  that  law  imposed 
by  a  school  of  sciolists,  who  have  never  shed  one 
drop  of  sweat  in  your  furrows,  but  who  devour  your 
first-fruits ;  who  spend  Spanish  money  and  eat 
foreign  bread ;  who  preach  honor  for  Spaniards  and 
profit  for  strangers." 

Mr.  Figuerola  in  this  matter  had  sinned  against 
light  and  knowledge.  The  speaker  had  come  from 
Catalonia  long  ago  to  warn  him,  but  he  would  not 
be  convinced.  "When  I  showed  him  how  the 
decline  of  production  was  leaving  a  surplus  of  in- 
telligent labor  which  would  thus  be  driven  into 
emigration,  depopulating  the  farming  regions  of 
Spain,  he  answered  cynically, '  Let  them  emigrate : 
we  will  have  seven  million  Spaniards  left.' 

"  Why  will  General  Prim  make  a  Cabinet  ques- 
tion over  a  Minister  capable  of  uttering  such  a 
blasphemy  ?  If  it  were  not  that  he  throws  into  the 
balance   his  great   personality,  who   supposes   the 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  337 

majority  would  vote  to  fling  away  the  last  that 
remains  to  us  of  credit  and  bread,  the  last  rag  that 
covers  the  nakedness  of  this  wretched  nation  ? 

"  The  people  clamor  for  economies,  but  what  care 
you  for  that  ?  You  are  more  royalist  than  the  king. 
You  vote  the  state  more  than  it  asks.  You  all  have 
a  cover  at  the  feast.  If  you  eat  and  do  not  pay, 
what  care  you  if  the  people  pay  and  do  not  eat  ? 
Not  only  in  your  haU  of  sessions,  but  in  your 
lobbies  and  corridors,  I  am  shocked  and  grieved: 
I  seek  everywhere  for  patriotism,  and  find  only  an 
inordinate  greed  of  office." 

At  this  point  the  noise  and  confusion  in  the  hall 
became  so  great  that  the  orator  was  compelled  to 
pause  for  a  moment  in  his  denunciation.  Such  lan- 
guage is  never  heard  in  a  European  congress,  where 
the  most  exquisite  courtesy  of  expression  always 
characterizes  the  most  heated  debates.  This  Scyth- 
ian oratory  was  new  to  the  conscript  fathers.  The 
President  intervened  and  severely  rebuked  Mr.  Puig 
y  Llagostera.  He  went  on  with  renewed  vehemence, 
which  occasioned  renewed  tumult,  and  finally  he 
ceased  to  worry  the  sensitive  office-holders,  and  re- 
turned to  the  state  of  the  country. 

Like  a  true  Catalan  he  had  his  word  to  say 
of  Cuba,  and  it  was  of  course  in  praise  of  the 
brutal  and  bloody  volunteers.  He  despised  and 
abhorred  all  discussion  of  reform  for  the  colonies, 
and  cried, "  Perish  principles  and  save  the  colonies !" 

15  V 


338  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

He  thought  the  interregnum  was  a  source  of 
woes  unnumbered,  and  said,  "  Let  us  get  out  of  it,  at 
any  cost,  —  witli  Montpensier,  with  Don  Carlos, 
with  Prim,  with  the  Devil,  if  you  like,  —  but  be 
quick  about  it "  :  which  certainly  showed  a  spirit 
above  party.  He  summed  up  in  a  few  nervous 
words  the  wants  of  the  country :  security  for  capital, 
labor  for  the  workingman,  a  field  for  intelligence, 
development  of  the  public  wealth,  —  this  was  gov- 
ernment. Less  speeches  and  better  laws ;  less 
office-seeking  and  more  production ;  less  clubs  and 
more  workshops  ;  less  beggars  and  more  bread ;  in  a 
word,  less  politics  and  more  government. 

This  speech,  wild  and  illogical  as  it  was,  pro- 
foundly and  disagreeably  impressed  the  house. 
Figuerola,  who  was  reserving  his  strength  for  the 
attack  in  front,  refused  to  meet  this  flank  movement, 
and  his  friend  Echegaray  answered  for  him.  He  made 
a  sensible  reply,  showing  that  it  was  not  the  func- 
tion of  a  government  to  abolish  poverty  or  create 
riches,  and  that,  after  all,  the  picture  drawn  by  Mr. 
Puig  was  darker  than  the  facts  justified. 

To  which  the  Catalan  orator  rejoined,  in  a  graphic 
metaphor,  that  no  doubt  the  situation  looked  very 
bright  to  those  who  stood  in  the  radiance  of  the 
treasury,  but  far  off,  in  the  darkness,  the  country 
was  weeping  in  misery. 

After  this  exciting  interlude,  the  Chamber  re- 
turned to  the  evening's  serious  work.     Mr„  Figue- 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN  THE   CORTES,  339 

rola  rose  to  complete  the  speech  he  had  begun 
before  dinner,  and  made  one  of  those  skilful  argu- 
ments that  so  often  confuse  the  listener,  until  he 
imagines  he  is  convinced.  Although  the  Minister 
knew  his  political  existence  depended  upon  the 
issue  of  this  night,  he  was  as  cool  and  passionless, 
and  as  exquisitely  courteous  in  his  references  to  the 
perfect  candor,  good  faith,  and  patriotism  of  his 
adversaries,  as  if  it  were  the  weight  of  Saturn's 
rings  that  was  under  discussion. 

He  was  followed  by  Kivero,  Minister  of  the  Inte- 
rior, who  defended  the  Cabinet  in  general  from  the 
vigorous  attack  made  upon  them  the  night  before 
by  Canovas  del  Castillo,  the  sole  representative  in 
the  Chamber  of  the  partisans  of  the  late  queen. 
While  Kivero  is  not  deficient  in  those  chivalrous 
civilities  to  opponents,  which  mark  all  Spanish 
debate,  he  is  an  honest  and  square  adversary,  and 
makes  a  speech  which  cannot  be  misunderstood. 
There  seems  to  be  a  singular  affectation  among  Span- 
ish politicians,  of  denouncing  the  status  quo;  of 
lamenting  the  evils  which  exist,  and  promising 
something  better  to-morrow.  The  monarchical  depu- 
ties appear  to  consider  it  a  sort  of  treason  to  their 
unknown  king  to  be  contented  before  he  comes. 
We  hear  everywhere  and  every  day  jeremiads  over 
the  interregnum.  But  the  fact  is,  that  Spain  has 
rarely  had  so  good  a  government  as  this  truce  of 
monarchy.     Kivero  is  the  only  member  of  the  gov- 


340  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

emment  who  appears  to  have  the  pluck  to  say  this. 
To-night,  after  neatly  disposing  of  Mr.  Canovas's 
pretensions  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  government 
of  a  Eevolution  he  does  not  recognize,  he  goes  on 
to  say:  "Gentlemen,  there  is  one  phrase  I  hear 
continually,  '  Madrid  is  tranquil,  but  the  provinces 
are  not.'  I  confess  I  myself  entered  the  Gober- 
nacion  under  this  impression.  But  I  have  not 
encountered  —  I  say  it  frankly  before  this  assembly 
—  any  element  of  disorder  which  would  not  be  easy 
to  destroy  completely,  with  a  good  administrative 
system,  with  a  loyal  and  sincere  observance  of  the 
principles  contained  in  the  Constitution,  with  an 
active  and  vigorous  execution  of  the  laws.  I  be- 
lieve and  say  this,  though  this  should  be  the  last 
night  I  should  occupy  this  place ;  I  believe  that 
public  order  in  Spain  is  by  no  means  so  uncertain 
or  so  easily  disturbed  as  some  fear  and  many  pre- 
tend to  fear."  These  are  truer  and  more  honest 
words  than  have  often  been  spoken  by  a  Spanish 
Minister  of  the  Interior.  The  traditional  custom 
has  been  to  magnify  the  ofS.ce,  to  represent  the 
people  as  a  dangerous  beast,  who  must  be  kept 
carefully  chained  and  muzzled. 

Silvela  made  his  closing  argument,  which  was 
chiefly  significant  for  the  pleading  earnestness  with 
which  he  strove  to  impress  it  upon  the  government 
that  his  amendment  was  their  best  friend,  and 
would  be  the  salvation  of  the  Eevolution.     This 


A  FIELD-NIGHT  IN   THE   CORTES.  341 

did  not  create  much  interest.  The  deputies  were 
growing  tired  of  the  long  skirmishing.  It  was  now 
after  one  o'clock.  Every  one  wanted  to  hear  Prim, 
and  vote. 

The  Marquis  of  Perales,  Vice-President,  said,  as 
Silvela  took  his  seat,  "  The  President  of  the  Council 
of  Ministers  has  the  word." 

Prim  slowly  rose,  holding  his  eye-glasses  in  his 
gloved  hands.  His  face  was  as  colorless  and  im- 
passive as  that  of  a  mummy.  There  was  a  rustle 
of  movement,  as  the  house,  now  wide  awake,  bent 
forward  to  catch  his  first  words.  They  were  full  of 
soldierly  bluntness :  "I  am  not  going  to  discuss 
this  law.  I  know  nothing  about  these  matters,  and 
never  talk  about  things  I  do  not  understand.  I 
have  full  confidence  in  the  Minister  of  Hacienda, 
and  so  believe  this  law  is  a  good  one.  This 
opinion  is  shared  by  my  companions  in  the  govern- 
ment." 

Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  frank  than 
these  words ;  yet  they  were  deeply  pondered  and 
perfectly  fitted  to  the  occasion.  No  art  could  have 
improved  them.  They  at  once  enlisted  the  sympa- 
thy of  his  followers,  and  set  an  example  of  party 
discipline.  He  continued,  expressing  his  inability 
to  understand  the  cause  of  this  attack  from  the 
Liberal  Union :  "  I  can  understand  the  opposition 
of  Mr.  Tutau;  the  Eepublicans  desire  the  fall  of 
the  present  government ;  and  that  of  Mr.  Muzquiz 


S42  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

also,  for  the  Carlists  wish  the  disappearance  of  this 
Cabinet  and  this  Chamber ;  for  the  same  reason  I 
was  not  surprised  at  the  assault  of  Mr.  Canovas." 
Here  his  voice  and  manner,  which  had  been  as 
mild  as  an  undertaker's,  suddenly  changed,  and  he 
said  with  great  dignity  and  solemnity,  turning  to 
the  Unionist  fraction,  "  But  I  cannot  understand  — 
I  declare  it  with  the  sincerity  of  an  honest  man  — 
the  attitude  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Liberal  Union, 
because,  though  my  distinguished  friend,  Mr.  Silvela, 
has  clothed  his  opposition  with  beautiful  and  elegant 
forms,  still,  opposition,  and  of  the  rudest,  it  is,  wliich 
his  Lordship  makes,  not  only  to  Mr.  Figuerola,  but 
to  the  whole  government."  He  continued  for  some 
time,  showing  the  disorganizing  and  disastrous 
results  that  would  follow  the  success  of  the 
Unionist  attack,  declaring  that  the  Cabinet  would 
immediately  resign  in  a  body.  He  recounted  the 
efforts  he  had  made  to  prevent  the  rupture ;  and 
his  voice  and  utterance  had  something  almost 
pathetic  as  he  narrated  his  fruitless  endeavors  to 
find  some  ground  for  agreement.  But  as  he  closed, 
a  sort  of  transformation  came  over  him.  He 
seemed  to  grow  several  inches  taller.  He  stood 
straight  as  a  column,  and  his  voice  rang  out  like 
a  trumpet  over  the  hall :  "  They  present  us  the 
battle.  There  remains  no  more  for  me  to  say  than, 
Radicals  !  defeTid  yourselves  !  Let  those  who  love  me, 
follow  me  !  " 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE"  CORTES.  343 

What  tremendous  power  there  lies  in  the  speech 
of  a  man  of  action !  If  any  deputy  but  Prim  had 
said  these  words,  how  coldly  they  would  have  fallen  ! 
But  from  him  they  were  so  many  flashes  of  light- 
ning. The  house  was  ablaze  in  a  second.  The 
Eadicals  rose,  cheering  frantically.  It  was  a  battle- 
field speech,  and  had  its  deeply  calculated  effect. 
The  phalanx  was  fused  into  one  man. 

As  the  cheering  died  away,  Topete  was  seen  to 
rise  from  his  seat  by  Prim  and  take  him  by  the 
hand  in  sign  of  farewell.  The  gallant  sailor  uttered 
a  word  of  energetic  protest,  too  low  to  be  heard  in 
the  tumult,  and  then  passed  over  to  his  friends  of 
the  Liberal  Union.  It  was  now  their  turn  to  burst 
out  in  a  shout  of  defiance.  They  surrounded  the 
Admiral,  embracing  and  welcoming  him.  For  some 
minutes  this  wild  agitation  reigned  in  the  Chamber. 
There  was  an  excited  tremor  in  the  voice  and  the 
beU  of  the  President,  as  he  rang  and  shouted  his 
unavailing  appeals  for  order. 

At  last  a  comparative  calm  was  restored,  but 
the  ground-swell  of  emotion  prevented  any  further 
serious  discussion.  Silvela  spoke  again,  deprecating 
the  soldierly  rashness  with  which,  as  he  said.  Gen- 
eral Prim  had  made  this  question  a  matter  of  life 
and  death.  The  President  of  the  Council  responded, 
this  time  with  admirable  coolness,  affecting  great 
surprise  at  the  effect  his  words  had  created,  but 
reiterating  his  statement  of  the  aU-important  char- 


344  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

acter  of  the  A^ote.  The  members,  now  thoroughly 
aroused  and  eager  for  the  fray,  began  to  clamor  d 
votar  / 

The  voting  began  in  an  intense  silence.  Each 
member  rises  in  turn  in  his  place,  gives  his  own 
name,  and  votes  si  or  tw.  As  the  vote  went  sweep- 
ing around  the  red  plush  semicircle,  it  was  so  close 
that  the  coolest  hearts  beat  faster.  But  the  last 
ayes  are  gathered  in  on  the  Federal  mountain,  where 
Castelar,  Figueras,  and  Louis  Blanc  are  enthroned, 
and  they  are  not  enough  by  six.  The  Cabinet  is 
saved,  and  the  coalition  is  broken. 

The  power  of  Prim  is  consolidated  anew  for  the 
present.  He  has  successfully  withstood  an  attack 
from  a  combination  embracing  every  possible  shade 
of  opposition,  and  founded  upon  a  just  vindication 
of  parliamentary  prerogative.  It  is  scarcely  within 
the  limits  of  possibility  to  conceive  that  Unionists 
and  Carlists  can  plant  themselves  again  on  a  plat- 
form where  the  Eepublicans  can  consistently  aid 
them.  In  the  hope  of  destroying  the  Ministry,  the 
reactionary  parties  for  one  instant  seized  the  weapon 
of  right ;  and  the  progressive  Monarchists,  to  pre- 
serve their  organization,  availed  themselves  of  the 
discipline  of  absolutism.  People  talk  for  a  day  or 
two  of  the  chilling  majority  of  six  as  being  a  virtual 
government  defeat ;  but  it  can  be  more  correctly  re- 
garded as  an  attack  made  by  the  opposition  in  the 
best  conceivable  conditions  of  success,  received  and 


A  FIELD-NIGHT   IN   THE   CORTES.  345 

repulsed  by  the  government  at  the  weakest  point  of 
its  defences. 

The  incident  shows  a  positive  progress  in  Spanish 
politics.  The  coalition  which  has  thus  fallen  to 
pieces  resembled  in  some  respects  that  aggregation 
of  parties  that  drove  Espartero  from  the  Eegency 
in  the  height  of  his  power,  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago.  Then,  however,  there  was  so  little  cohesion  in 
the  mass  of  conspirators,  that  the  coalition  only  sur- 
vived the  victory  a  week  or  two.  The  country  lived 
in  anarchy  until  the  queen  was  declared  of  age,  at 
thirteen  years,  and  Mr.  Olozaga  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  government.  For  five  days  there  was 
a  deep  breath  of  relief  and  public  confidence.  But 
the  Camatilla  of  the  Palace  poisoned  the  mind  of 
the  baby  sovereign  against  the  Premier,  and  induced 
her  to  make  a  solemn  charge  against  that  grave  and 
courtly  statesman,  that  he  had  locked  her  up  in  her 
despacJio,  and  by  physical  violence  forced  her  to  sign 
a  decree  which  he  wanted ;  an  utterly  absurd  and 
fantastic  falsehood,  but  one  which  broke  up  the 
government,  and  brought  into  power  the  vulgar 
despot,  Gonzalez  Bravo,  —  a  convincing  proof  of 
the  precocious  corruption  of  the  queen  and  the 
terrible  disorganization  of  parties. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  see  this  later  coalition 
lasting  in  something  like  harmony  nearly  two  years ; 
working  together  in  the  formation  of  a  Constitution 
freer  than  that  of  any  European  monarchy,  and  at 


846  CASTILIAN  DAYb. 

last  broken  "by  the  secession  of  the  more  conserva- 
tive fraction,  who  were  aghast  at  the  apparently 
serious  march  of  reform  undertaken  by  the  majority. 
They  choose  with  great  skill  and  judgment  the  most 
favorable  battle-ground.  They  make  an  issue  upon 
a  violation  of  a  just  prerogative  of  the  Cortes,  where 
they  are  sure  of  the  aid  of  the  always  consistent  and 
uncompromising  Kepublicans.  The  attack  is  made 
with  vigor  and  prudence.  But  in  the  face  of  this 
formidable  combination,  the  government  has  ob- 
tained cohesion  enough  to  gain  a  substantial  vic- 
tory. 

It  gains  by  the  very  secession.  It  is  now  able  to 
move  forward  with  unshackled  feet  in  the  path  of 
progress.  It  is  free  to  seek  its  true  inspiration  in 
the  ranks  of  the  democracy.  It  may  now  be  sure 
that  a  combination  of  plunder  is  a  mere  rope  of 
sand,  and  the  requirements  of  the  time  can  only  be 
met  by  parties  founded  on  the  principles  of  practical 
Uberty 


THE  MORAL  OF   SPAJJISH   POLITICS.  3flt7 


THE  MOEAL  OF  SPAOTSH  POLITICS. 

There  would  be  little  hope  for  good  government 
in  Spain  if  you  accepted  the  statements  of  well-in- 
formed people.  They  are  almost  all  pessimists.  The 
higher  you  go  in  the  social  hierarchy,  the  gloomier 
are  the  views  they  express  of  the  possibilities  of 
liberal  government.  I  was  one  day  talking  with  a 
most  cultivated  and  enlightened  gentleman,  who 
spoke  with  great  warmth  and  admiration  of  the 
liberal  representative  systems  of  England  and  Amer- 
ica. "We  shall  have  it  here  finally,  I  suppose"; 
then  added  with  bitter  sadness,  "  The  only  trouble 
will  be  for  the  first  five  or  six  hundred  years." 
Even  the  reactionists  appear,  in  conversation,  to 
have  a  platonic  regard  for  freedom,  and  speak  of  it 
as  younger  sons  speak  of  the  rose  that  all  are 
praising,  which  is  not  the  rose  for  them. 

When  you  consider  the  arrogant  self-esteem  which 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  Spanish  character,  it  is  hard 
to  reconcile  with  it  this  renunciation  of  the  highest 
ideals  in  government.  You  would  think  they  would 
insist  upon  it  that  their  government  was  better  than 
any  other,  because  it  was  theirs.  But  the  contrary 
is  the  case.    The  better  class  of  Spaniards  usually 


348  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

admit  the  faults  of  their  system,  and  say  it  is  the 
best  attainable  while  there  are  Spaniards  in  Spain. 
"  You  must  govern  this  people  with  the  Constitution 
in  one  hand  and  a  club  in  the  other,"  said  a  dis- 
tinguished officer  to  me,  who  five  minutes  before 
had  called  the  Peninsula  a  paradise  and  its  denizens 
unfallen  types  of  manhood.  There  is  an  old  legend 
which  relates  that  when  St.  Ferdinand  went  to 
heaven  he  was  kindly  received  by  the  Virgin  and 
requested  to  ask  for  Spain  anything  he  thought 
necessary.  ^He  was  not  slow  to  avail  himself  of 
this  unlimited  credit.  He  asked  for  fertile  soil,  a 
serene  sky,  for  brave  men  and  lovely  women,  for 
plentiful  store  of  com  and  wine  and  oil.  All  these 
were  granted  with  divine  largess.  The  royal  saint 
then  bethought  himself  to  ask  for  good  government. 
But  the  gracious  Queen  of  Heaven  promptly  refused 
this  prayer,  saying,  "If  I  give  you  that,  all  my 
angels  will  emigrate  to  Spain,  and  I  shall  be  left 
without  a  court." 

It  is  to  the  past,  rather  than  to  the  present,  that 
we  must  look  for  an  explanation  of  this  apathetic 
acquiescence  in  vicious  government.  The  Spaniards 
are  not  an  unmanageable  people.  A  government 
which  could  gain  their  confidence  would  have  an 
easy  task  in  administering  their  affairs.  We  can^ 
not  attribute  the  corruptions  of  their  political  or- 
ganization to  any  innate  lack  of  honesty  in  the 
national    character.      The  individual  Spaniard  ia 


THE   MORAL   OF   SPANISH  POLITICS.  349 

rather  an  honest  man, — muy  homhre  de  hien, 
Montesquieu  said,  more  than  a  century  ago,  "The 
Spaniards  have  been  in  all  ages  famous  for  their 
honesty.  Justin  mentions  their  fidelity  in  keeping 
whatever  was  intrusted  to  their  care  ;  they  have 
frequently  suffered  death  rather  than  reveal  a 
secret.  They  have  still  the  same  fidelity  for  which 
they  were  formerly  distinguished.  All  the  nations 
who  trade  to  Cadiz  trust  their  fortunes  to  the 
Spaniards  and  have  never  yet  repented  it." 

With  all  these  good  qualities,  their  administration 
is  the  most  corrupt  in  the  world.  It  is  a  legacy  from 
the  centuries  of  despotism,  during  which  it  was 
nurtured  by  the  abuses  of  arbitrary  power  and 
slowly  poisoned  by  the  casuistry  of  the  Church. 
The  omnipotence  of  the  king  was  reflected  in  his 
sordid  ministers.  The  grasping  and  greedy  clergy 
ran  coupled  with  the  tyrant  state,  and  shared  the 
spoil  of  the  robberies  it  assisted  and  condoned. 
Despotism  assured  impunity  to  plunder,  and  the 
spiritual  power  gave  sanction  to  the  villanies  by 
which  it  throve.  The  great  aristocratic  houses 
have  in  large  proportion  found  their  origin  in 
rascally  placemen.  The  spirit  of  municipal  inde- 
pendence which,  if  it  had  lived,  would  have  checked 
the  corruptions  of  the  central  power,  went  out  in 
disaster  and  blood  on  the  fatal  field  of  Yillalar. 
The  bourgeoisie  of  Spain  bowed  its  head  on  the 
ensanguined  block  where    John  of  Padilla   died. 


S50  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

From  that  time  on  through  Austrians  and  Bourbons 
the  kings  and  the  priests  have  had  their  own  foul 
will  of  the  government.  And  the  rule  of  crown 
and  gown  can  best  be  judged  by  its  results  in 
Spain. 

There  is,  in  short,  a  lack  of  principle  in  the 
higher  walks  of  government  such  as  is  not  else- 
where seen.  It  is  not  so  much  dishonesty  as  it  is 
a  total  absence  of  conscience  in  political  matters. 
It  is  the  morality  of  Loyola  improved  by  Machiavel. 
Not  only  does  the  end  justify  the  means,  but  it  also 
justifies  itself,  which  is  often  the  more  serious  task. 
Not  only  will  the  average  Spanish  politician  sustain 
the  policy  of  doing  evil  that  good  may  come,  but  he 
will  commit  infamies  to  attain  ends  which  are 
themselves  equally  objectionable,  according  to  any 
code  of  morals  known  to  the  world.  A  minister 
thinks  it  an  entirely  proper  proceeding  to  call  the 
journalists  of  his  party  together  and  authorize  them 
to  publish  an  unfounded  piece  of  information  for 
political  effect.  Far  from  being  blamed,  he  is  ap- 
plauded for  it,  if  the  trick  succeeds.  They  have  a 
brow  of  bronze  when  detected  and  exposed  in  a 
misrepresentation.  They  merely  say  in  explanation 
that  the  circumstances  under  which  such  and  such 
statements  were  made  required  the  greatest  reserve. 

By  a  curious  freak  of  language,  the  Castilian  is 
the  only  tongue  of  Europe  which  has  adopted  the 
IJatin  fabulare  as  the  ordinary  verb  of  speech,  — 


THE  MORAL   OF  SPANISH  POLITICS.  351 

khe  Spanish  hablar.  By  a  similar  unconscious  feli- 
city, they  caU  an  official  letter  an  "  expedient."  The 
word  which  in  their  vocabulary  expresses  the  lowest 
form  of  siUy  simplicity  is  candido,  —  candid.  A 
man  who  speaks  what  he  thinks  is  regarded  as  near 
the  perilous  borders  of  idiocy. 

Conscious  of  this  insincerity  in  themselves,  they 
always  expect  it  in  others.  They  have  the  absurd 
and  irrational  distrust  of  maniacs.  It  is  this  which 
renders  their  diplomacy  so  annoying  and  vexatious. 
They  take  aU  you  say  as  a  ruse  to  cover  your  real 
intentions,  and  try  to  amuse  you  with  falsehoods 
while  they  are  endeavoring  to  detect  your  ulterior 
motives.  There  was  a  striking  instance  of  this  in 
the  time  of  John  Tyler.  This  distinguished  acci- 
dent, in  his  superserviceable  zeal  for  slavery,  im- 
agined he  had  discovered  an  English  and  abolition 
plot  for  freeing  the  slaves  of  Cuba  and  establishing 
a  republic  on  the  Island.  He  instantly  offered  the 
assistance  of  the  military  and  naval  forces  of  the 
United  States  to  Chevalier  d'Argaiz,  the  Spanish 
Minister  at  Washington,  to  queU  any  such  attempt 
in  case  it  took  place.  D'Argaiz,  who  had  been  so 
long  out  of  Spain  that  he  understood  something  of 
human  nature,  saw  at  once  that  the  offer  was  genuine 
and  dictated  solely  by  devotion  to  slavery,  and  so 
accepted  it  with  gratitude.  But  on  informing  his 
government  of  the  occurrence,  he  was  at  once  re- 
called and  disgraced  for  his  unparalleled  innoceuce. 


362  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

The  wise  men  of  Madrid  discovered  under  this  ex- 
traordinary offer,  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  Mr.  Tyler's 
face,  a  deep-laid  scheme  of  Saxon  land-theft.  They 
did  not  realize  into  what  devious  ways  the  pro- 
slavery  zeal  of  those  days  could  lead  our  statesmen. 

You  can  never,  even  after  years  of  experience, 
predict  the  answer  which  the  Spanish  government 
will  make  to  a  just  claim.  You  can  only  be  sure 
of  one  thing,  —  that  it  will  not  pay.  They  will  at 
first  deny  the  fact,  they  will  next  make  an  argu- 
ment on  the  law,  and  they  will  end  by  silence  and 
shameless  delay.  Even  the  bayonet  is  not  always 
a  sufficient  persuader.  They  would  often  rather 
fight  than  pay. 

There  is  usually  too  pressing  need  of  money  in 
the  august  circles  of  the  court  and  cabinet  to  have  any 
of  it  wasted  in  the  payment  of  debts.  It  has  been  the 
custom  during  many  reigns,  for  good  and  faithful 
servants  of  the  crown  to  save  a  large  percentage 
of  the  estimates  of  their  departments,  and  give  it 
to  their  gracious  sovereign.  It  is  said  that  Calo- 
marde  once  handed  to  Ferdinand  VII.  a  quarter 
of  a  million  doUars  pared  off  the  budget.  The 
cooking  of  his  accounts  produced  this  dainty  dish 
to  set  before  the  king.  In  more  recent  days  the 
same  amiable  habit  was  kept  up  in  favor  of  Ferdi- 
nand's gentle  daughter  and  heiress. 

With  these  examples  in  high  places,  is  it  wonder- 
ful that  the  subordinate  officers  of  the  government 


THE  MORAL   OF  SPANISH  POLITICS.  353 

should  hold  somewhat  lax  views  of  their  duties  to 
the  state  ?  Their  salaries  are  ridiculously  small.  A 
dozen  of  them  are  appointed  to  do  the  work  of  two 
or  three,  and  the  sum  which  would  afford  a  support 
to  these  is  divided  into  the  pittance  of  the  dozen. 
They  must  live,  they  say.  The  rainy  day  is  more 
likely  to  come  to-morrow  than  the  day  after.  Ad- 
ministrations change  so  rapidly  that  no  man  is 
sure  of  his  wretched  place  for  an  hour.  Instead  of 
gaining  credit  by  an  honest  discharge  of  his  du- 
ties, he  would  only  win  the  contempt  of  his  neigh- 
bors. There  is  a  curious  cynicism  about  it.  Ford 
describes,  in  his  caustic  way,  a  visit  he  made  to  a  pro- 
vincial governor.  A  cloaked  cavalier  went  out  as 
he  entered.  He  found  the  eminent  functionary  shov- 
elling gold  into  his  desk.  "  Many  ounces.  Excel- 
lency ! "  "  Yes,  my  friend,"  said  the  cheerful  patriot. 
"  I  do  not  intend  to  dine  on  potatoes  hereafter." 

This  conviction  of  the  dishonesty  of  their  rulers 
is  deeply  rooted  in  the  minds  of  the  common  peo- 
ple. It  will  impair  for  many  years  to  come  the  free 
and  complete  operation  of  liberal  representative 
government.  There  is  no  question  that  since  the 
adoption  of  the  modern  constitutional  system  there 
has  been  a  great  improvement  in  these  matters. 
The  improvement  will  continue  and  increase  as  the 
people  take  a  more  and  more  active  part  in  politics. 
But  there  seems  as  yet  very  little  growth  of  public 
confidence. 


354  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

The  masses,  considering  the  government  a  band 
of  robbers,  naturally  endeavor  to  make  their  gains 
as  small  as  possible.  Nowhere  is  the  smuggler  so 
popular  and  respectable  a  personage.  The  govern- 
ment has  no  rights,  and  the  citizen  thinks  himself 
justified  in  cheating  to  the  fullest  extent  the  officers 
of  the  revenue.  There  appears  to  be  no  idea  of 
moral  wrong  attached  to  a  fraud  upon  the  state. 
One  of  the  commonest  results  of  years  of  tyranny- 
is  this  disregard  of  civic  obligations.  A  lie  told  to 
deceive  or  elude  the  government  is  a  mere  matter 
of  course.  The  Ministry  of  the  Colonies  published 
in  March,  1870,  a  decree  abolishing  the  proofs 
of  purity  of  blood  in  the  Colonies.  He  made  in 
the  preamble  the  extraordinary  declaration  that  it 
was  impossible  to  establish  the  truth  in  cases  of 
doubtful  parentage,  as  parents  were  in  the  habit  of 
swearing  daily  that  they  were  not  the  fathers  of 
their  own  children.  This  cruel  and  barbarous  relic 
of  the  old  law  of  caste  had  thus  become  a  dead 
letter  through  the  corruption  of  conscience  which  it 
caused  among  its  victims. 

From  these  two  causes  —  the  want  of  principle 
among  leading  men,  and  the  want  of  faith  among 
the  people  —  has  resulted  that  utter  absence  of 
genuine  political  agitation  and  discussion  which  has 
marked  the  history  of  Spain  for  many  years.  There 
can  be  no  wholesome  political  life  for  a  nation 
without  the  shock  of  controversy.     There  has  nevei 


THE  MORAL  OF  SPANISH  POLITICS.  355 

been  any  controversy,  properly  speaking,  in  Spain. 
In  the  spiritual  world,  the  bigots  of  the  sixteenth 
century  did  their  work  so  well  that  it  will  require 
many  years  of  the  sunshine  of  freedom  and  the 
friction  of  foreign  missions  to  warm  the  torpid  souls 
of  the  masses  into  sentient  life.  In  politics  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  the  work  will  be  easier,  as  the  obsta- 
cles in  this  case  are  merely  the  habits  and  traditions 
of  a  relatively  small  number. 

Nothing  is  more  puzzling  to  a  stranger  than  the 
political  nomenclature  of  the  Spaniards.  It  is  at 
once  reduced  to  a  question  of  men,  and,  incidentally, 
measures.  If  you  ask  your  neighbor  at  a  caf^, 
"  What  are  the  Progresistas  ? "  he  will  be  almost 
sure  to  answer,  "  Prim's  men."  "  And  what  are 
the  Union  Liberals  ? "  The  reply  will  generally  be, 
"  Since  O'Donnell's  death,  it  is  hard  to  say,  —  Ser- 
rano and  Topete  and  Kios  Eosas,  and  the  Devil 
knows  what."  For  a  long  time  Eivero  was  called 
the  Democratic  party,  but  there  is  too  sterling 
stuff  in  that  fraction  to  be  absorbed  by  any  one 
man. 

As  a  general  thing  the  old  parties  have  eschewed 
platforms.  They  have  usually  confined  themselves 
in  their  public  utterances  to  denunciations  of  their 
opponents,  to  clamoring  for  retrenchment  and 
reform  as  if  they  wanted  it,  and  to  insisting  that 
the  honor  of  Spain  requires  that  the  other  side 
fthould  go  out  and  they  in.     Of  course  with  such  a 


356  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

system  and  such  an  organization  a  strong  and  vig- 
orous canvass  of  principles  is  impossible.  The  only 
weapons  of  Spanish  political  warfare  have  been, 
hitherto,  intrigue  and  insurrection. 

The  possession  of  the  monarch  was  at  all  times 
a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance.  With  the 
single  exception  of  Charles  III.,  there  has  been  no 
king  in  Spain  since  Philip  II.  capable  of  ruling. 
In  the  days  of  absolutism  the  first  minister  was 
dictator,  and  since  the  beginning  of  the  constitu- 
tional regime  he  has  been  little  less.  This  despotic 
power  was  continually  tempered  and  chastened,  not 
so  much  by  a  regard  for  public  opinion,  because 
that  has  scarcely  existed,  as  by  a  fear  of  treason 
in  the  antechamber  and  cabals  in  the  boudoir.  In 
this  field  the  worst  and  meanest  combatants  had  the 
best  chance  of  victory.  It  would  be  hard  to  con- 
ceive of  a  coarser  and  more  stupid  plot  than  that  to 
which  Isabella  II.  lent  herself,  in  her  vicious  child- 
hood, which  drove  Olozaga  into  disgrace  and  exile, 
and  broke  up  the  government  which  had  been 
formed  with  such  infinite  labor  and  care  on  the 
ruins  of  Espartero's  power.  Yet  it  was  as  success- 
ful as  a  hammer  in  the  hand  of  an  idiot,  which  can 
pulverize  the  work  of  Phidias.  A  clumsy  lie, 
taught  to  this  youthful  queen  in  her  cabinet,  re- 
peated before  the  titled  hirelings  of  the  palace, 
dukes,  marquises,  and  counts  by  dozens,  not  one  of 
whom  could  have  believed  it,  was  followed  by  the 


THE  MORAL   OF  SPANISH  POLITICS.  357 

publication  of  a  new  ministry  in  the  Gazette  and  a 
political  revolution  in  Spain.  The  reign,  thus  begun, 
continued  under  the  same  baleful  auspices.  A  safe 
word  whispered  by  a  crawling  confessor,  an  attack 
of  nerves  on  a  cloudy  day,  the  appearance  of  a  well- 
made  soldier  at  a  levee,  have  often  sufficed  to  break 
and  make  administrations.  The  influence  of  sex 
in  the  government  of  the  Peninsula  is  a  powerful 
argument  for  the  Salic  law.  Yet  this  law  came 
from  the  Franks,  those  continent  barbarians  who 
respected  their  women  much  more  highly  than  the 
Latins,  and  with  reason,  for  Tacitus  speaks  of 
their  sever  a  matrimonia,  and  says,  Paucissima  in 
tarn  numerosa  gente  adulteria.  How  much  wiser  is 
the  exclusion,  in  warmer  climes,  of  women  from  the 
government !  Maria  Louisa  and  Christina,  in  suc- 
cessive reigns,  behind  the  throne,  gravely  impaired 
its  prestige,  and  to  their  descendant,  Isabella,  was 
given  the  opportunity  of  finishing  the  work. 

Each  of  the  prominent  leaders  in  Spanish  politics 
has  continually  at  his  orders  a  compact  body  of 
mercenary  captains  of  tens,  who  know  their  owner 
and  are  faithful  to  their  master's  crib.  These  are 
very  valuable  property,  and  must  be  watched  and 
fed  with  great  care,  or  the  adversary  will  have  them 
in  his  own  corral  on  some  unexpected  morning. 
They  are  generally  venal,  though  not  always  so. 
They  have  often  gone  to  sure  death  at  the  bidding 
of  their  leader,  or  followed  him  cheerfully  into  exile 


358  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  poverty  in  the  hope  of  better  times.  Paciencia 
y  harajar,  —  "  Patience  and  shuffle  the  cards," —  is 
the  favorite  motto  of  the  Spanish  politician.  The 
changes  are  so  rapid  and  sudden  that  each  is  as 
sure  of  coming  occasionally  to  the  top,  as  the  sepa- 
rate cogs  of  a  revolving  wheel. 

It  is  this  gambler's  spirit  which  has  made  insur- 
rection so  popular  in  Spain  as  a  political  engine.  In 
other  countries  it  is  only  a  highly  excited  public 
feeling  or  the  pressure  of  intolerable  wrongs  that 
can  make  an  insurrection  possible.  But  in  this 
volcanic  region  it  is  a  recognized  implement  of 
political  warfare;  organized  in  cold  blood,  carried 
through  if  luck  favors,  and  abandoned  as  soon  as  it 
seems  unlikely  to  succeed.  They  do  not  often 
reaUy  overturn  the  government;  not  more  than 
one  in  half  a  dozen  attains  its  object.  But  lotteries 
are  none  the  less  popular  that  there  are  more  blanks 
than  prizes.  They  owe  some  of  their  popularity  to 
the  facility  with  which  the  leaders  get  away  to 
France  or  to  Gibraltar,  and  the  credit  and  capital 
which  even  an  unsuccessful  rising,  if  conducted 
with  spirit  and  energy,  gains  for  a  rising  politician. 
There  is  another  most  fatal  habit  which  contributes 
powerfully  to  their  vogue,  —  that  of  voting  indem- 
nities and  rewards  for  time  lost  in  exile,  whenever 
by  a  turn  of  the  cards  the  baffled  rebels  come  to 
power.  This  is  an  abuse  utterly  without  justifica- 
tion, but  so  entirely  in  accordance  with  tradition 


THE   MORAL   OF   SPANISH   POLITICS.  359 

that  General  Prim  thought  it  necessary  to  introduce 
a  bill  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow-conspirators  of 
1866,  when  President  of  the  Council  in  1870.  It 
is  a  symptom  of  awakening  conscience  in  the  Cortes 
that  so  many  of  the  government  party  voted  against 
him  on  that  occasion. 

Insurrections  started  by  popular  agitators  are 
almost  always  failures.  Without  a  considerable 
military  force  to  pronounce  at  the  proper  moment, 
it  is  mere  madness  to  attempt  a  revolution.  Very 
often  the  regiments  you  have  bought  grow  prudent 
and  thoughtful  at  the  last  moment,  and  the  best- 
planned  military  plots  gang  agley  by  the  repurchase 
of  the  conspirators.  The  reason  why  the  Kevolu- 
tion  of  September,  1868,  was  so  complete  and  per- 
fect a  success  was  that  the  Queen  had  driven  so 
many  generals  into  exile  that  there  were  none  so 
good  in  Spain ;  the  navy  was  brought  over  by  To- 
pete,  who  had  been  outraged  by  the  causeless 
banishment  of  Montpensier;  and  the  disgust  of 
the  country  with  the  government  was  so  great  and 
evident  that  the  army  had  no  heart  to  obstinately 
oppose  a  movement  which  was  so  likely  to  triumph. 
From  all  these  reasons  Serrano's  army  at  Alcolea 
was  stronger  materially,  and  infinitely  more  power- 
ful morally,  that  that  of  Novaliches,  and  Prim's 
conquest  of  the  seaboard  was  a  mere  pleasure  ex- 
cursion. 

Since  the  Kevolution  the  army  has  been  perfectly 


360  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

quiet.  There  is  more  or  less  talk  of  Carlist  and 
Alfonsist  intrigues,  but  they  are  probably  unfounded. 
The  time  has  not  yet  come  for  a  strong  movement 
in  favor  of  either  pretender.  Yet  there  are  very 
few  officers  in  the  army  who  do  not  occasionally 
canvass  the  chances  for  a  pronunciamento,  and  re- 
gard this  as  among  the  most  likely  contingencies  of 
the  future.  "  In  the  next  emigration,  I  shall  visit 
the  United  States,"  a  brilliant  young  officer  said  to 
me  one  day,  in  as  simple  and  matter-of-fact  a  tone  as 
a  lieutenant  in  our  service  would  use  to  announce 
his  intention  of  spending  his  next  furlough  at 
Saratoga. 

So  frequent  are  these  insurrections  and  so  much 
a  matter  of  course,  that  they  have  given  rise  in 
Spain  to  an  extension  of  the  right  of  asylum  never 
thought  of  by  Vattel  or  Puffendorf.  Not  only  are 
all  the  legations  in  Madrid  periodically  crowded  with 
the  vanquished  heroes  of  barricades,  but  all  the  con- 
sulates on  the  seaboard  have  the  same  power  and  the 
same  responsibilities.  Even  after  the  killing  has  be- 
gun a  consul  can  carry  his  flag  out  of  the  city  followed 
by  all  who  choose  to  avail  themselves  of  its  pro- 
tection. A  legation  which  would  refuse  to  receive 
any  political  fugitive,  or  any  number  of  them,  would 
be  considered  wanting  in  every  attribute  of  hu- 
manity. When  your  house  is  full,  and  the  fighting 
is  over,  it  is  regarded  as  the  proper  thing  for  you  to 
take  all  your  guests  in  the  train  with  you,  as  your 


THE   MORAL    OF   SPANISH   POLITICS.  361 

own  family,  and  convey  them  safely  to  France. 
This  is  an  office  no  one  ever  declines.  The  con- 
sequences of  refusal  would  be  damaging  to  your 
peace  of  mind  in  after  years.  You  may  be  reason- 
ably sure  that  if  you  shut  your  door  in  the  face  of 
a  Spaniard  who  is  running  for  his  life,  that  his 
hours  are  numbered.  The  sport  of  cudgelling  and 
trampling  and  stabbing  a  helpless  fugitive  is  too 
tempting  to  be  withstood  by  any  mob  of  Celtic 
blood.  The  government  has  in  former  days  been 
no  more  merciful  than  the  street  killers.  They 
only  shot  their  victims  more  regularly  and  decent- 
ly. With  other  improvements  of  the  Revolution, 
there  has  been  a  great  change  for  the  better  in  the 
treatment  of  prisoners.  It  seems  as  if  the  Prim 
government  would  greatly  prefer  their  convicts 
should  escape  than  be  shot.  Suiier  y  Capdevila, 
under  sentence  of  death  for  his  share  in  the  Cata- 
lan insurrection  of  1869,  escaped  to  France  with- 
out trouble,  and  after  six  months  of  exile,  worn  out 
by  homesickness,  he  had  the  insane  audacity  to 
come  back  to  Madrid  and  take  his  seat  one  day  in 
the  Cortes.  The  members  rubbed  their  eyes,  and 
stared  as  at  a  ghost.  His  friends  hurried  him  out 
of  the  hall,  and  the  officers  arrested  him  at  the 
door  and  confined  him  in  a  room  on  the  ground 
floor,  where,  by  Prim's  order,  a  window  was  left 
open,  and  Suner,  the  most  honest  and  pure-minded 
atheist  who  ever  lived,  who  could  with  as  just  a 

16 


362  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

claim  as  Ben  Adhem's,  demand  that  his  name  be 
written  among  the  lovers  of  man,  went  back  un- 
hunted  to  his  wearisome  exile.  Every  one  langhed, 
but  the  old  reactionists  said,  "  What  children  these 
are  in  the  government  to-day !  O'DonneU.  would 
have  laughed  also,  but  he  would  have  shot  him  all 
the  same." 

The  policy  of  retreat  in  troubled  times  is  one 
which  seems  very  groundless  to  a  foreigner  and 
very  necessary  to  Spaniards.  When  the  Eepubli- 
can  insurrection  broke  out  in  Catalonia  in  the  au- 
tumn of  1869,  the  Eepublican  members  of  the 
Cortes,  who  strongly  opposed  the  movement,  and 
who  had  done  no  unlawful  act,  kept  their  seats 
manfully  in  the  Chamber,  until  the  suspension  of 
individual  rights.  They  then  retired  in  a  body  from 
the  house,  notwithstanding  a  most  impressive  and 
earnest  appeal  from  Marshal  Prim.  Most  of  the 
foreigners  in  Madrid  blamed  them  for  it ;  said  that 
their  place  was  in  their  seats,  taking  care  that  the 
commonwealth  received  no  detriment  in  the  ab- 
normal state  of  things.  But  it  afterwards  appeared 
that  these  men  had  a  surer  instinct  of  danger  than 
any  foreigners  could  have.  There  was  one  night  in 
which  the  whole  minority  would  have  been  caged 
but  for  the  warning  they  received  from  a  faithful 
friend  in  the  Cabinet. 

Later,  in  the  summer  of  1870,  when  the  Carlists 
were  organizing  a  powerful  ][>ropaganda  with  their 


THE  MORAL   OF   SPANISH  POLITICS.  363 

journals  and  their  clubs,  some  of  the  street  arabs 
of  Madrid  attacked  for  several  nights  in  succession 
the  Carlist  Casino.  The  government  sent  a  small 
police-force  to  protect  the  Casino,  which  proved 
powerless  for  the  purpose,  and  the  row  went  on  for 
an  hour  or  so  every  night,  localized  in  a  single 
street.  In  the  course  of  the  disturbance,  an  amiable 
young  gentleman  of  good  family  and  position,  who 
happened  to  be  passing  that  way,  was  set  upon  and 
murdered  by  the  human  hyenas  who  were  howling 
about  the  Casino,  for  the  mere  love  of  killing. 
Suddenly  the  Carlist  party,  in  the  height  of  its 
strength  and  efficiency,  resolved  upon  retreat.  They 
closed  their  clubs,  discontinued  their  journals,  and 
vanished  in  an  instant  from  the  political  world. 
Some  of  the  prominent  parliamentary  leaders  pre- 
sented themselves  at  the  American  legation  asking 
for  shelter.  This  was  a  most  singular  choice,' —  the 
advocates  of  divine  right  and  the  Inquisition  com- 
ing for  safety  to  Kepublican  heretics.  But  they 
were  of  course  kindly  received.  In  a  few  days 
they  had  left  Madrid  and  were  scattered  over 
Europe.  There  is  but  one  motive  which  could 
have  induced  such  courageous  and  energetic  men  to 
have  thus  condemned  their  party  to  silence  and 
inaction.  They  thought  their  lives  were  in  danger, 
and  that  the  protest  of  the  living  would  be  more 
effectual  than  the  blood  of  martyrs. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  great  and  most 


364  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

beneficent  change  is  beginning  in  the  political  life 
of  Spain.  There  can  be  no  surer  proof  of  this  than 
the  attacks  of  the  reaction.  They  say  the  Eevolu- 
tionary  government  is  composed  of  imbeciles,  of 
men  powerless  to  rule.  The  orators  of  traditional 
leanings  continually  denounce  the  government  as 
incapable  of  leading  and  controlling  the  Cortes ; 
attributing  this  lack  of  capacity  to  inexperience, 
and  the  pernicious  influence  of  liberal  doctrines. 
They  do  not  see  that  it  is  the  duty  of  a  parliament- 
ary government  to  seek  its  inspiration  in  popular 
opinion  as  expressed  by  the  representatives  of  the 
nation ;  that  it  is  too  late  to  expect  any  government 
to  give  to  its  deputies  each  day  their  daily  ideas. 
In  many  matters  of  more  or  less  importance,  the 
government  has  been  defeated  by  a  vote  of  the 
Chamber  where  it  was  supported  generally  by  a 
large  majority.  So  far  from  seeing  any  symptoms 
of  chaos  in  this,  I  cannot  but  regard  it  as  a  sign  of 
vigorous  life.  Too  many  Spaniards  look  back  with 
regret  to  the  old  days  of  personal  rule,  when  the 
game  of  intrigue  was  so  much  easier  and  simpler 
than  now,  —  when  you  must  watch  public  opinion 
and  feel  the  pulse  of  a  nervous  and  independent 
Chamber.  It  is  not  long  since  a  great  minister, 
whose  position  in  the  palace  had  become  precarious, 
prolonged  and  fortified  his  lease  of  power  by  intro- 
ducing into  the  royal  Alcazar  an  athletic  young 
feUow  who  found  favor  in  august  eyes.     He  was 


THE   MORAL   OF   SPANISH  POLITICS.  365 

Boon  made  Governor  of  Madrid,  to  the  stupefaction 
of  that  loyal  city.  His  office  obliged  him,  according 
to  an  immemorial  custom,  to  go  every  night  at  the 
mid  watch  to  the  palace,  and  to  give  to  the  sover- 
eign the  comforting  assurance  that  "  all  was  well." 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  a  ministry  will  nevtr  be 
saved  or  lost  again  by  such  trivial  means.  The  old 
facility  of  combination  of  personal  interests  for 
place  and  plunder  has  greatly  diminished.  The 
result  is,  it  is  true,  a  certain  lack  of  cohesion  in  the 
government  phalanx ,  but  this  is  compensated  by 
the  additional  vigor  and  life  it  has  gained  by  the 
thorough  adhesion  of  the  democratic  element.  The 
session  of  the  night  of  San  Jose,  which  I  have 
sketched  in  another  chapter,  which  resulted  in  the 
excision  of  the  Liberal  Union  from  the  majority, 
gained  the  government  more  than  it  lost.  The 
Progresista-Democrats,  no  longer  encumbered  with 
that  able  but  sceptical  party  of  intrigue  and  com- 
promise, have  walked  with  freer  limbs,  have  wrought 
with  a  more  liberal  hand,  since  that  memorable 
night. 

A  new  and  most  important  force  has  entered  into 
Spanish  politics  by  the  organization  of  the  Kepub- 
Ucan  party.  This  is  a  novel  apparition  in  the 
Cortes  and  in  the  canvass  :  a  party  that  asks  nothing 
for  its  leaders ;  that  would  not  accept  a  portfolio 
if  it  were  offered;  that  rejects  all  compromise  of 
principles,  and  fights  its  battle  out  on  one  line     It 


36*6  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

is  far  from  being  a  perfect  organization.  There  are 
even  now  the  warning  symptoms  of  a  serious 
schism  on  the  question  of  making  their  Eepublic, 
when  they  get  it,  unitary  or  federal.  They  feel  so 
sure  it  is  coming  that  a  quarrel  over  its  name  al- 
ready disturbs  the  peace  of  the  household.  But  even 
their  dissensions  and  controversies  are  something 
hitherto  imknown  to  the  Spanish  political  under- 
standing. They  quarrel  over  principles,  never  over 
men  or  plunder.  Not  a  word  of  personality  enters 
into  these  fiery  debates  in  their  clubs  and  conven- 
tions, where  the  science  of  government,  and  not  the 
claims  of  party,  is  thoroughly  discussed,  —  where 
Hobbes  and  Montesquieu,  Madison  and  Jefferson, 
are  quoted  and  regarded  as  high  authority.  So  far, 
the  fight  they  have  made  in  the  Cortes  in  favor  of 
liberal  principles  has  never  been  in  the  least  em- 
barrassed by  these  controversies.  They  have  always 
presented  a  solid  phalanx  in  favor  of  individual 
rights,  the  divorce  of  Church  and  State,  the  abolition 
of  slavery,  the  autonomy  of  the  colonies.  They 
have  not  divided  on  a  single  question  of  importance. 
They  have  always  displayed  the  most  admirable 
courage,  united  to  the  most  perfect  temper.  In  the 
masses  of  the  party,  the  counsels  of  prudence  and 
moderation  have  generally  prevailed.  In  the  spring 
of  1870,  at  a  time  when  there  was  much  murmur- 
ing against  the  leaders  of  the  party,  and  especially 
against  the  EepubHcan  members  of  the  Cortes,  for 


THE   MORAL   OF   SPANISH  POLITICS.  367 

the  slow  march  of  events,  a  convention  of  the 
whole  party  was  called  to  meet  at  Madrid  and 
arrange  a  platform  and  plan  of  organization.  There 
came  together  in  obedience  to  this  summons  a  full 
delegation  from  every  province  in  Spain.  They 
remained  in  session  a  week,  and  although  there 
was  perhaps  a  superabundance  of  eloquent  discus- 
sion, there  was,  on  the  whole,  a  practical  good-sense 
and  good-feeling  that  astonished  the  monarchical 
party,  and  inspired  the  liveliest  hopes  among 
thoughtful  liberals.  They  adopted  a  platform  of 
principles  of  unobjectionable  Republicanism,  and 
set  on  foot  a  scheme  of  energetic  and  effective 
organization.  They  separated  in  great  harmony, 
after  having  appointed  a  resident  Directory  at 
Madrid,  consisting  —  as  the  most  pointed  contra- 
diction they  could  give  to  the  assertions  of  distrust 
of  their  leaders  —  of  Orense,  Figueras,  Castelar, 
Pi  y  Margall,  and  Urgelles,  —  the  first  four  being 
the  chief  Eepublican  orators  of  the  Cortes,  and 
all  representing  the  sober,  practical  democracy  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  rather  than  the  wild  fever- 
dreams  of  1793,  or  the  rosy  reveries  of  socialism. 

This  spectacle  of  a  party  whose  only  rule  of 
action  is  in  popular  opinion  is,  I  repeat,  entirely 
new,  and  not  easily  comprehensible  in  Spain.  It  is 
reported  that  the  venerable  Mr.  Guizot  recently  said 
to  Emile  Ollivier :  "  Seek  your  support  in  the 
centre,  for  there  the  masses  follow  their  leaders; 


368  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

never  in  the  extremes,  for  there  the  leaders  follow  the 
masses."  The  observation  was  sagacious  and  worthy 
of  the  veteran  liistorian,  but  the  advice  founded  on 
it  was  what  might  have  been  expected  from  the 
constitutional  tyrant  who  destroyed  the  government 
of  Louis  Philippe.  It  is  the  legitimate  corollary  of 
universal  suffrage,  that  leaders  should  find  tlieir 
inspiration  in  the  uncorrupted  convictions  of  the 
people.  This  is  a  hard  matter  to  accept  in  the 
Peninsula.  Even  General  Prim  once  taunted  the 
Republican  deputies  with  heading  an  "undisci- 
plined troop,"  and  Rivero  tried  to  pique  Castelar  by 
telling  him  that  if  the  Republic  came  it  would  be 
Guisasola,  and  not  he,  that  would  be  the  favorite  of 
the  rabble,  —  a  gird  that  had  no  other  effect  than  to 
draw  from  the  generous  tribune  a  hearty  and  frank 
defence  of  his  more  radical  rival. 

The  uncompromising  consistency  of  the  Repub- 
licans is  equally  inexplicable  to  the  men  of  the  old 
parties,  as  it  takes  its  rise  from  this  unreserved  ac- 
ceptance of  the  popular  will  as  the  only  rule  of  civil 
government.  There  are  many  men  among  the  Mon- 
archists who  care  nothing  for  the  monarchical  prin- 
ciple ;  who  merely  prefer  that  form  as  affording  a  more 
convenient  method  of  carrying  on  the  administration 
of  affairs  in  the  old  corrupt  way.  If  the  Republi- 
cans in  the  Cortes  were  a  coterie  instead  of  a  party, 
if  they  would  consult  their  own  individual  interests 
instead  of  the  mandate  of  their  constituents,  an  ar- 


THE   MORAL   OF   SPANISH  POLITICS.  369 

rangement  might  be  made  any  day  to  throw  the 
government  into  a  republican  form,  with  sufficient 
guaranties  for  power  and  profit  to  the  old  profes- 
sional politicians  of  the  past.  But  this  awkward 
and  obstinate  honesty  makes  it  impossible  to  arrive 
at  any  understanding  with  them.  The  lobbyists  say 
in  their  spite  and  anger,  "  If  there  were  no  Eepub- 
licans,  we  could  have  the  Eepublic  easily  enough." 
He  is  a  rash  man  who  will  venture  predictions  in 
regard  to  the  course  of  things  in  Spain.  The  changes 
are  so  sudden  and  violent  as  to  baffle  prophecy.  We 
have  seen  too  much  of  the  gourd-Kke  growth  of 
revolutions,  which  at  evening  are  not  and  in  the 
morning  overshadow  the  Peninsula,  to  attempt  to 
cast  the  horoscope  of  the  government  of  September. 
But  we  think  it  must  require  the  most  obstinate 
pessimism  to  refuse  to  see  that  a  new  and  beneficent 
spirit  has  begun  to  influence  the  political  life  of 
Spain.  It  is  as  yet  too  young  and  new  to  control 
completely  the  progress  of  affairs.  But  it  is  coura- 
geous and  aggressive.  It  speaks  every  morning  in 
the  press  denouncing  the  old  infernal  rule  of  vio- 
lence and  of  superstition.  It  attacks  the  slavers  of 
Cuba  and  the  thought-stranglers  of  the  Vatican.  It 
is  heard  in  the  clubs,  in  the  widespread  committees 
of  the  people,  who  are  laboring  to  prepare  them- 
selves to  administer  their  own  affairs.  Its  voice 
rings  out  in  the  Cortes  in  strains  of  lyric  beauty, 
that  are  only  heard  in  the  fresh  and  dewy  dawn  of 

16*  X 


370  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

democracies.  The  day  that  is  coming  is  not  to  be 
tranquil  and  cloudless.  The  transformations  of 
systems  are  not  accomplished  like  those  of  the 
pantomimes.  There  will  be  bloodshed  and  treasons 
and  failures  enough  to  discourage  and  appall  the 
faint-hearted.  But  the  current  cannot  be  turned 
backward.  The  record  of  these  two  laborious  years 
of  liberal  effort  has  not  been  written  in  water.  The 
shadow  will  go  forward  on  the  dial,  though  so  slowly 
that  only  the  sharpest  eyes  can  see  it  move.  Spain, 
the  latest  called  of  the  nations  of  Europe,  is  not 
condemned  to  everlasting  punishment  for  the  crimes 
of  her  kings  and  priesthood.  The  people  cannot  do 
worse  than  they  have  done.  It  requires  no  sanguine 
faith  to  hope  they  will  do  much  better  when  they 
come  to  their  estates. 


THE  BOURBON  DUEL.  371 


THE  BOUEBON  DUEL. 

If  there  is  one  fact  that  shows  more  clearly  than 
others  the  lack  of  modern  civilization  in  Spain,  it  is 
the  continued  subservience  of  the  better  classes  to 
the  point  of  honor.  In  England  the  duel  has  fallen 
into  the  same  disrepute  in  which  it  is  held  in  Amer- 
ica. In  Germany  it  is  given  over  to  boys.  In  France 
it  is  a  rare  occurrence  that  a  gentleman  fights.  The 
daily  rencounters  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  are  gen- 
erally among  journalists  and  jockeys,  —  men  un- 
certain of  their  position  and  standing,  who  feel  in 
their  uneasy  self-consciousness  the  necessity  *to 
donner  des  preuves.  The  hired  bravo  of  the  Empire 
is  Mr.  Paul  de  Cassagnac,  whose  real  name  is  Paul 
Granier.  He  has  fought  six  duels  with  men  who 
called  him  by  his  proper  name,  and  the  press  of 
Paris  has  been  cowed  into  accepting  his  usurped 
agnomen.  He  has  great  coolness,  great  skill  in  the 
use  of  arms,  great  readiness  of  foul  invective,  but 
there  is  probably  no  man  in  Paris  less  respected, 
unless  we  except  his  Imperial  master. 

But  in  Spain  the  duel  is  the  resort  of  gentlemen. 
The  point  of  honor  is  absolute  in  society.  The 
phrase  itself  has  been  used  so  much,  that  its  angles 


372  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

have  been  worn  off  and  the  three  words  rubbed 
into  one,  — pundonor  (punto  de  honor).  Not  satis- 
fied with  that,  the  Spaniards  have  started  from  the 
basis  of  this  barbarous  abbreviation  to  build  an  ad- 
jective, pundonoroso,  which  conveys  the  highest 
compliment  you  can  pay  to  a  cavalier  of  Castile. 
To  be  touchy  and  quarrelsome  —  bizarre,  as  they 
term  it  —  is  the  sure  index  of  a  noble  spirit.  If 
you  are  not  bellicose  yourself,  you  must  at  least 
always  be  ready  to  accept  a  quarrel  with  alacrity. 
This  is  a  (wvee  to  which  every  one  is  subject  who 
pretends  to  be  in  the  world. 

You  must  not  be  too  nice,  either,  in  the  choice  of 
an  adversary.  The  son  of  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant families  of  the  kingdom  was  recently  killed 
in  a  duel  with  a  man  of  greatly  inferior  social  posi- 
tion. The  Governor  of  the  Philippine  Islands 
fought  with  a  young  clerk,  whom  he  had  impris- 
oned at  Manilla  for  not  taking  off  his  hat  when 
his  Excellency  passed  by  for  his  airing.  The 
clerk  bided  his  time  and  buffeted  the  Governor  at 
the  door  of  the  Casino  in  Madrid,  and  hence  the 
fight. 

Neither  youth  nor  age  is  a  just  cause  of  ex- 
emption. Two  gray-haired  lieutenant-generals  went 
out  last  winter  for  a  friendly  interchange  of  shots. 
Two  boys  at  the  military  school  rode  in  from 
Guadalajara  with  their  friends  and  fought  before 
sunrise  in  the  shadow  of  the  monument  of  the  Dos 


THE  BOURBON  DUEL.  373 

de  Mayo  in  the  Prado.  One  was  left  dead  in  the 
frosty  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  obelisk,  and  the  rest 
mounted  their  horses  and  hurried  back  to  be  in 
time  for  morning  prayers  at  the  college. 

The  duel  is,  therefore,  in  Spain  not  the  absurd 
anachronism  that  it  is  in  countries  more  advanced. 
It  is  a  portion  of  the  life  of  the  people.  It  is  an 
incident  of  the  imperfect  civilization  which  still 
exists  in  the  Peninsula.  It  is  believed  in  and  re- 
spected as  a  serious  and  dignified  end  to  a  quarrel 
There  are  men  who  see  the  utterly  false  and  illogical 
character  of  the  custom ;  but  even  these,  while  de- 
ploring it,  do  not  dare  oppose  it. 

It  is  natural,  in  consequence  of  this  attitude  of 
public  opinion  in  the  country,  that  the  duel  which 
resulted  in  the  death  of  Prince  Henry  of  Bourbon, 
at  the  hands  of  his  cousin  the  Duke  de  Mont- 
pensier,  should  meet  wdth  very  different  appre- 
ciation in  Madrid  from  that  which  it  receives  in 
all  other  capitals.  Yet  we  cannot  but  be  pleased 
to  see  that  even  here  it  has  occasioned  wide  discus- 
sion, and  from  the  standing  of  the  parties  concerned 
has  attained  a  vast  publicity  which  must  result  in  a 
salutary  change  of  public  sentiment. 

No  duel  so  important  in  the  position  of  the  par- 
ties, or  in  probable  results,  has  taken  place  in  recent 
times.  The  fight  of  Burr  and  Hamilton  alone  is  to 
be  compared  to  it.  The  combatants  were  both 
princes  of  the  blood  royal  of  Spain  and  France,  — 


374  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

not  only  high  in  the  hierarchy  of  two  dethroned 
families,  but  of  great  importance  in  the  actual 
situation,  and  factors  of  value  in  the  problems  of 
the  future.  Both  were  men  of  mature  age  and 
fathers  of  families.  Montpensier  is  forty-five  and 
Prince  Henry  was  a  year  older.  The  first  is  a  captain- 
general  in  the  army,  the  second  was  an  admiral  in 
the  navy.  Both  professed  liberal  sentiments.  Both 
were  exiled  before  the  Eevolution  as  dangerous  to 
the  dynasty,  and  the  battle  of  Alcoba,  in  which 
neither  took  part,  opened  to  both  the  gates  of  the 
country. 

Here  the  parallel  ceases.  Montpensier  returned 
rich,  powerful,  the  head  and  hope  of  a  large  and 
active  party,  —  the  most  prominent  candidate  for 
the  vacant  throne.  Prince  Henry  came  back  poor, 
with  few  friends,  with  no  interest,  and  so  little  in- 
fluence that  the  government  refused  to  restore  him 
to  his  active  rank  in  the  navy  of  which  he  had  been 
unjustly  stripped  by  the  government  of  Bravo.  He 
was  a  man  of  a  curious  scatter-brained  talent.  He 
had  great  historical  knowledge,  a  bright  and  quick 
imagination,  and  in  conversation  a  vivid  and  taking 
style,  which  would  have  been  florid  were  it  not  sub- 
dued and  flavored  by  a  dry,  hard  cynicism,  which 
found  only  too  inviting  a  -field  of  exercise  in  the 
politics  of  his  country.  He  was  an  ardent  Eepub- 
lican,  —  of  the  school  of  younger  brothers,  like 
Philippe  ^galite,  and  Prince  Napoleon,  and  Maxi- 


THE    BOURBON    DUEL.  375 

milian  of  Austria,  whose  Republicanism  was  perhaps 
more  the  fruit  of  ennui  and  unemployed  powers 
than  a  profound  conviction.  It  was  hard  to  resist 
the  brilliant  and  picturesque  talk  of  Prince  Henry- 
while  you  were  with  him,  and  yet  no  one  seemed  to 
trust  the  witty  blond  Bourbon,  and  Monarchists  and 
Eepublicans  alike  treated  him  with  cold  civility,  and 
rather  feared  his  assistance.  His  preference  for  the 
Republic  was  frankly  and  openly  expressed;  but 
"then,"  he  would  add  with  the  same  fatal  frank- 
ness, "  we  Republicans  are  not  honest  nor  sensible 
enough  as  yet.  Orense  will  think  it  an  outrage  if 
Castelar  is  president,  and  Castelar  will  sulk  if  we 
elect  Orense.  We  cannot  do  without  our  First 
Tenor,  or  our  Heavy  Father.  We  must  take  refuge 
in  the  provisional.  Espartero  is  our  only  choice. 
He  has  no  brains,  but  he  is  a  noble  old  figure-head, 
and  will  launch  us  cleverly  on  our  way  for  a  year 
or  two,  and  we  must  learn  how  to  take  care  of  the 
government  before  he  dies." 

It  may  easily  be  imagined  that,  with  such  a  taste 
for  the  dangerous  luxury  of  speaking  his  mind,  Don 
Enrique  did  not  get  on  rapidly  in  favor  with  either 
the  situation  or  the  opposition.  He  would  not  flat- 
ter the  regency  nor  train  with  the  Republicans.  If 
he  had  confined  himself  to  talking,  it  would  have 
been  far  better ;  but  from  time  to  time  he  found  an 
unlucky  pen  in  his  way  and  issued  preposterous 
manifestoes  which  everybody  read  and  most  people 


376  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

laughed  at,  but  which  nevertheless  always  had  some 
uncomfortable  barbs  that  pierced  and  stayed  in  the 
sensitive  vanity  of  men  whom  he  had  better  have 
conciliated.  So  while  other  inferior  men  got  place 
and  influence,  the  Ex-Infante  was  left  to  corrode  his 
own  heart  in  poverty  and  neglect.  He  was  too 
proud  to  ascribe  this  to  anything  but  his  name.  "  I 
have  an  unlucky  name,"  he  would  say,  "  but  I  did 
not  give  it  to  myself,  and  it  seems  to  me  unworthy 
of  a  democracy  to  proscribe  a  name.  I  am  no  bet- 
ter for  being  a  Bourbon  but  —  dame  !  I  am  no 
worse.  There  are  Bourbons  and  Bourbons.  They 
call  me  descendant  of  Philip  V.  Eh  hien  !  I  am 
descendant  of  Henry  IV.  as  well.  I  cannot  afford 
to  hide  my  name,  like  my  friend  Montpensier." 
There  was  some  little  of  bravado,  even,  in  his  re- 
solving, after  the  Eevolution,  when  the  walls  of 
Madrid  were  covered  with  curses  on  his  name,  to 
drop  his  title  of  Duke  of  Seville,  which  he  gave  to 
his  son,  and  to  assume  his  abhorred  patronymic  for 
constant  wear.  Enrique  de  Borbon,  a  Spanish  citi- 
zen, was  aU  the  title  he  claimed. 

Montpensier  was  always  his  special  detestation. 
There  was  something  in  the  grave  formal  life  of  the 
Duke,  in  his  wealth,  in  his  intense  respectability, 
that  formed  perhaps  too  striking  a  contrast  to  the 
somewhat  Bohemian  nature  of  Don  Enrique.  He 
grew  more  and  more  violent  as  he  saw  his  chances 
for  rehabilitation  in  the  navy  fading  away.    He  wrote 


THE   BOURBON  DUEL.  377 

a  long  letter  to  Serrano,  which  he  sent  through  that 
irregular  medium,  the  public  press,  and  which  caused 
great  wincing  in  high  quarters  by  its  trenchant  criti- 
cism and  naive  indiscretion.  It  is  remembered  that 
Montpensier  read  it  in  Seville  in  his  palace  of  San 
Telmo,  and,  crumpling  the  paper  in  his  hand,  said, 
"  That  man  will  be  my  ruin  yet."  Don  Enrique  ap- 
peared to  have  a  like  instinctive  antipathy.  "When 
informed  that  Montpensier  had  come  to  Madrid  he 
started,  turned  pale,  and  said.  El  6  yo !  — "  He 
or  I!" 

The  Duke  passed  through  Madrid  in  February  on 
his  way  to  the  baths  of  Alhama.  In  Spain  people 
go  to  watering-places  when  they  need  the  waters, 
with  a  shocking  disregard  of  fashions  or  the  calen- 
dar. He  remained  a  few  weeks  at  Alhama,  and  on 
his  way  back  to  Seville  stopped  at  Madrid,  —  as  if 
a  gentleman  on  his  way  from  New  York  to  Boston 
should  halt  for  a  rest  at  Washington.  As  in  that 
case  you  would  ask  " what  he  was  after','  so  asked 
the  Madrilenos  of  the  Duke,  although  the  Castilian 
language  lacks  the  graphic  participial  force  which 
we  give  to  that  useful  adverb.  The  curiosity  grew 
so  irritating  that  Mr.  Cruz  Ochoa,  the  youthful  Neo- 
Catholic,  interpellated  the  government,  sternly  ask- 
ing what  the  Duke  was  doing  in  Madrid  To  which 
the  government,  speaking  through  the  phlegmatic 
oracle  of  Don  John  Prim,  replied  that  the  Duke  was 
in  Madrid  because  he  chose  to  be,  —  that  Spain  was 


378  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

a  free  country,  and  the  Duke  of  Montpensier  was  a 
soldier  on  leave,  and  could  fix  his  domicile  where 
he  liked.  The  only  thing  noticeable  in  the  speech 
of  Prim  was  that  he  called  the  Duke  Don  Antonio 
de  Borbon,  whereas  the  Duke  calls  himself,  and  all 
that  love  him  call  him,  Orleans. 

His  position  thus,  in  a  manner,  made  regular  and 
normal  by  the  explanations  of  the  government, 
Montpensier  began  a  course  of  life  which,  though 
unobjectionable  in  itself,  was  calculated  to  annoy 
his  enemies  beyond  measure.  It  was  the  season  of 
Lent,  and  he  went  regularly  to  church.  It  was  the 
end  of  a  hard  winter  in  Madrid,  and  he  fed  droves 
of  paupers  at  his  gate  every  morning.  It  was 
touching  to  see  the  squalid  army,  encamped  before 
his  pretty  palace  in  the  Fuencarral,  patiently  waiting 
for  the  stout  angel  to  come  and  give  them  bread.  The 
laurels  of  Peabody  seemed  to  trouble  his  sleep.  He 
projected  a  home  for  indigent  printers,  and  asked 
the  municipal  government  for  some  vacant  lots  to 
build  it  on.  The  municipal  government  promptly 
refused,  but  the  indigent  printers  felt  kindlier  to 
Montpensier  than  before.  The  ragged  and  hungry 
squad  he  fed  day  by  day  were  all  voters  too ;  and 
noisy  and  unemployed,  of  the  class  who  could 
afford  to  devote  all  their  leisure,  which  is  to  say  all 
their  waking  hours,  to  politics. 

That  there  was  something  like  a  panic  among  the 
opponents  of  the  Duke  is  undeniable.     After  his 


THE  BOURBON  DUEL.  379 

defeat  last  winter  for  Oviedo,  he  had  seemed  so 
utterly  impossible  as  a.  candidate  that  the  attacks 
on  him  had  become  less  frequent.  But  now  he 
seemed  to  be  regaining  that  faint  appearance  of 
popularity  which  might  be  used  as  a  justification 
of  a  sudden  election  by  the  government  and  Cortes. 
He  was  the  only  candidate,  —  he  had  at  least  one 
ardent  supporter  in  Admiral  Topete,  —  he  needed 
watching. 

All  this  inflamed  to  the  highest  point  the  ani- 
mosity of  Prince  Henry.  He  could  not  brook  even 
the  tepid  good- will  his  wealthy  cousin  was  gaining 
in  Madrid.  He  listened  to  imprudent  or  interested 
advisers, — it  is  widely  rumored  that  the  first  im- 
pulse started  from  the  Tuileries,  —  and  resolved  to 
put  upon  Montpensier  an  affront  which,  by  the 
canons  of  Spanish  honor,  could  only  be  met  by  a 
challenge  d  mort.  Henry  was  a  brave  man,  but  he 
had  accustomed  himself  to  thinking  so  highly  of 
Montpensier's  prudence  and  so  ill  of  his  spirit,  that 
he  probably  thought  the  insult  would  pass  unnoticed. 
The  same  opinion  was  openly  entertained  and  ex- 
pressed by  the  entire  Isabelinoand  Napoleon  interest 
in  Madrid. 

It  was  probably,  therefore,  with  no  apprehension 
and  little  excitement  that  Don  Enrique  wrote  and 
published  that  extraordinary  manifesto  to  the  Mont- 
pensierists,  in  which  he  declared  himself  not  only 
not  subservient  to  the  Duke,  but  his  decided  politi- 


380  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

cal  enemy,  with  a  profound  contempt  for  him  per- 
sonally; and  further  denounced  Montpensier  as  a 
charlatan  in  politics,  and  ended  by  calling  him  a 
"  bloated  French  pastry-cook." 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  man  of  sense  taking 
so  absurd  a  document  seriously.  Yet  all  Madrid 
was  in  a  flurry  of  excitement  over  it.  The  ques- 
tion asked  everyw^here  in  the  places  where  the  idlers 
congregate  was,  "  Will  he  fight  ? "  And  upon  the 
answer  depended  the  good  name  of  Montpensier  in 
Spain.  The  two  or  three  days  that  elapsed  before  the 
duel  showed  plainly  that  he  was  falling  in  public 
estimation  by  his  presumed  patience. 

The  patience  was  only  apparent.  As  soon  as 
the  paper  fell  into  his  hands  he  sent  his  aide-de- 
camp to  ask  Don  Enrique  if  it  was  genuine.  The 
Infante  promptly  sent  him  a  copy  with  his  auto- 
graph signature,  avowing  his  full  responsibility. 
The  case  was  made  up.  The  cousins  were  face  to 
face,  and,  under  the  rules  that  both  recognized, 
neither  could  recede.  The  next  step  of  either 
must  be  over  the  prostrate  body  of  the  other. 

The  first  proceeding  of  Montpensier  was  exces- 
sively pohtic.  Instead  of  selecting  his  seconds  from 
among  his  own  personal  and  political  friends,  he 
sent  for  General  Alaminos,  the  bosom  friend  of 
Prim,  a  leading  Progresista,  belonging  to  the  faction 
which  has  been  hitherto  most  hostile  to  the  Orleans 
candidature.     He  associated  with  him  General  Cor- 


THE   BOURBON  DUEL.  381 

dova  —  the  venerable  Inspector-General  of  Infantry, 
a  man  of  great  and  merited  influence  in  the  army  — 
and  Colonel  Solis. 

These  veterans  carried  to  the  house  of  Prince 
Henry  the  hostile  message  of  his  relative.  Several 
days  elapsed  before  Don  Enrique  responded.  The 
delay  was  occasioned,  partly  by  his  consulting  the 
Masonic  fraternity,  of  which  he  was  a  member  of 
high  rank,  —  of  the  33d  degree,  —  and  whose  sanc- 
tion he  received  in  the  matter ;  and  partly  by  the 
difficulty  he  found  in  procuring  men  of  character 
and  position  to  act  as  his  seconds.  Several  grandees 
of  Spain  refused,  —  a  circumstance  unheard  of  in 
their  annals.  At  last  three  Eepublican  deputies 
consented  to  act.  But  they  put  in  writing  their 
protest  against  being  considered  as  in  the  least  re- 
sponsible for  the  acts  or  opinions  of  their  principal. 
This  evident  isolation  seems  powerfully  to  have 
impressed  the  unfortunate  Prince. 

The  duel  took  place  at  eleven  o'clock,  in  a  deso- 
late sandy  plain  southwest  of  the  city,  used  as  a 
ground  for  artillery  practice.  The  officers  on  duty 
gathered  round  to  enjoy  this  agreeable  distraction 
from  the  monotony  of  garrison  life.  Sentries  were 
posted  at  convenient  distances  to  keep  away  any 
officers  of  the  law  who  might  be  prowling  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  to  check  the  curiosity  of  the 
peasants  of  the  vicinity,  who  had  no  right  to  be 
curious  in  affairs  of  honor.     The  parties  were  placed 


382  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

ten  metres  apart  in  the  stubble,  which  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  green  with  the  coming  spring.  For- 
tune was  obstinately  favorable  to  Don  Enrique.  He 
won  the  choice  of  pistols,  choice  of  ground,  and  the 
first  shot.  The  Duke,  a  large  and  powerful  man, 
stood  before  him  with  his  arms  folded.  His  seconds 
had  difficulty  in  making  him  assume  an  attitude 
more  en  rkgU.  Don  Enrique  fired  and  missed. 
Montpensier  fired  and  missed.  The  Infante  fired 
again,  with  the  same  result.  Montpensier  fired  the 
second  time,  and  his  bullet  struck  the  barrel  of 
Prince  Henry's  pistol,  splitting,  and  tearing  his  coat 
with  the  fragments.  At  this  point  Montpensier's 
veteran  seconds  thought  the  affair  might  be  properly 
terminated.  But  the  other  party,  after  consultation, 
decided  that  the  conditions  of  the  meeting  were  not 
yet  fulfilled. 

There  seems  a  cool  ferocity  about  this  decision 
of  Don  Enrique's  seconds  that  is  hard  to  compre- 
hend out  of  Spain.  If  a  duel  is  necessary,  it  must 
be  serious.  A  great  scandal  was  made  a  short  time 
ago  by  two  generals  going  out  to  settle  a  difference, 
supported  by  three  other  generals  on  a  side ;  and  on 
the  ground  they  were  reconciled,  without  a  shot,  by 
one  of  the  seconds  throwing  his  arms  around  their 
necks  and  saying  that  Spain  had  need  of  them,  — 
two  such  gallant  fellows  must  not  cut  each  other's 
throats  for  a  trifle.  The  party  came  in  to  breakfast 
in  great  glee,  but  aU  Madrid  frowned  ominously, 


THE  BOURBON  DUEL.  383 

and  will  not  forgive  them  for  forgiving  each  other. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  have  heard  Spanish  gentle- 
men speak  with  great  enthusiasm  of  the  handsome 
behavior  in  a  recent  duel  of  two  naval  officers  of 
high  rank,  intimate  friends,  who  had  quarrelled  over 
their  cups.  They  fought  twenty  paces  apart,  to  ad- 
vance to  a  central  line  and  fire  at  will.  One  walked 
forward,  and  when  near  the  line  the  other  fired  and 
hit  him.  The  wounded  man  staggered  to  the  line 
and  said:  "I  am  dead.  Come  thou  up  and  he 
killed."  The  other  came  up  until  he  touched  the 
muzzle  of  his  adversary's  pistol,  and  in  a  moment 
both  were  dead,  —  hke  gentlemen,  added  my  in- 
formant. 

It  is  possible  that  another  motive  may  have 
entered  into  the  considerations  of  the  Eepublican 
deputies  who  stood  as  godfathers  —  for  this  is  the 
name  given  to  these  witnesses  in  Spain  —  of  Prince 
Henry.  They  could  not  help  thinking  that  if 
Montpensier  fell,  he  would  be  safely  out  of  the 
way;  and  if  he  killed  his  cousin,  he  would  be 
greatly  embarrassed  by  it. 

However  this  may  be,  they  stood  up  for  another 
shot.  Prince  Henry  a  little  disordered  by  the  shock 
of  the  last  bullet.  "  The  Duke  has  got  my  range," 
he  said.  He  fired  and  missed.  Montpensier,  who 
had  remained  perfectly  cool,  fired,  and  Don  Enrique 
turned  slowly  and  fell,  his  life  oozing  out  of  a 
wound  in  the  right  temple,  and  staining  his  flaxen 
mils  and  the  drv  stubble  and  the  tender  grass. 


384  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Montpensier,  when  it  was  too  late,  began  to  think 
of  what  he  had  done.  When  informed  of  the  death 
of  his  cousin,  he  was  terribly  agitated,  so  that  Dr. 
Eubio,  who  was  one  of  Don  Enrique's  seconds, 
thought  best  to  accompany  the  Duke  to  his  palace. 
When  they  reached  the  gate  the  Duke  could  scarce- 
ly walk  to  his  door.  When  the  crowd  of  mendi- 
cants saw  him  leaning  heavily  on  the  arm  of  the 
physician,  they  concluded  he  was  wounded,  and 
burst  out  in  loud  lamentation,  fearing  that  the  end 
of  his  bread-giviug  was  near. 

In  an  hour  the  whole  city  was  buzzing  with  the 
news.  The  first  impression  was  singularly  illogical. 
Every  one  spoke  kindly  of  Montpensier,  and  every 
one  said  he  had  lost  his  chance  of  the  crown.  But 
the  general  feeling  was  one  of  respect  for  the  man 
who  would  toss  away  so  brilliant  a  temptation  at 
the  call  of  honor.  His  prestige  among  army  people 
was  certainly  improved.  It  seems  that  not  a  single 
voice  was  raised  against  him.  The  day  had  been 
fixed  for  the  interpellation  of  Castelar.  He  heard 
of  the  duel  a  few  minutes  before  the  session  opened, 
and  was  compelled  to  change  the  entire  arrange- 
ment of  his  speech  to  avoid  referring  to  Mont- 
pensier. 

When  the  evening  journals  appeared,  the  same 
dignified  reticence  was  observed.  The  Universal, 
which  had  been  attacking  Montpensier  daily  for 
months,  stated  in  a  paragraph  of  one  line  that  the 


THE  BOURBON   DUEL.  385 

Infante  Don  Enrique  had  died  suddenly  that 
marning.  The  E'poca,  the  organ  of  the  restoration, 
went  further,  and  announced  that  the  Prince 
was  accidentally  shot  while  trying  a  pair  of  pis- 
tols in  the  Campamento.  The  widely  circulated 
CoiTBS'pondencia  made  no  mention  whatever  of  the 
occurrence. 

But  the  next  day  it  became  evident  that  the  tra- 
ditional treatment  of  silence  could  not  be  followed 
in  this  case.  The  Kepublican  journals,  without  ex- 
ception, made  the  incident  the  occasion  of  severe 
and  extended  comment.  It  was  plain  that  the 
Spain  of  tradition  and  decorum  had  ceased  to 
exist ;  that  the  democracy  proclaimed  by  the  Con- 
stitution was  a  living  fact ;  and  that  this  event,  like 
all  others,  was  to  be  submitted  to  the  test  of  pub- 
licity. Heretofore  it  has  never  been  the  custom 
for  newspapers  to  make  any  mention  of  duels. 
When  death  resulted,  a  notice  was  published  in  the 
usual  form,  announcing  the  decease  of  the  departed 
by  apoplexy,  or  some  equally  efficient  agency,  and 
no  journal  has  ever  dared  hint  a  doubt  of  it.  But 
in  this  instance  the  organs  of  absolutism  and  the 
advocates  of  the  fallen  dynasty  vie  with  the  Ke- 
publicans  in  condemning  an  act  that  they  hope  may 
be  used  for  their  especial  ends.  As  the  hidalgos 
refused  to  act  as  Prince  Henry's  witnesses  because 
he  was  a  Democrat,  so  the  Bourbon  newspapers  call 

17  T 


CASTILIAN   DAYS. 


for  justice  on  Montpensier  because  he  is  an  aspirant 
for  a  throne  they  claim. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  this  shows  progress. 
Party  spirit  is  an  incident  of  a  better  civilization 
than  chivalry. 

The  first  judicial  proceedings  were  eminently 
characteristic.  The  gentlemen  who  witnessed  the 
duel  went  before  the  Judge  of  Getafe,  within  whose 
jurisdiction  the  event  occurred,  and  testified  upon 
their  honor  and  conscience,  each  with  his  hand  on 
the  hilt  of  his  sabre,  that  the  death  of  Don  Enrique 
Maria  Fernando  de  Borbon  was  pure  accident ;  that 
he  went  out  with  his  well-beloved  cousin,  my  Lord 
of  Montpensier,  to  try  some  new  pistols  ;  that  while 
they  were  trying  them  one  was  unpremeditatedly 
discharged,  and  the  ball  entered  the  head  of  the  said 
Don  Enrique,  causing  his  untimely  death ;  that  my 
Lord  of  Montpensier  was  overwhelmed  with  grief 
at  this  mournful  fatality,  and  was  unable  to  appear 
and  testify.  This  was  the  solemn  statement  of  two 
veteran  generals,  gray-headed  and  full  of  honors, 
who  would  have  the  life  of  their  brother,  if  he  cast 
a  doubt  on  their  veracity. 

But  if  the  truth  was  considered  too  precious 
to  be  wasted  on  a  lawyer  and  a  civilian,  they  did 
not  spare  it  in  reporting  the  facts  to  the  Minister 
of  War,  President  of  the  Council,  acting  Auto- 
crat of  all  the  Spains,  John  Prim.     He  heard  the 


THE  BOURBON   DUEL.  387 

whole  story,  said  everything  was  regular,  and  ad- 
vised them  all  to  keep  quiet  a  day  or  two,  and  the 
town  would  forget  it,  and  the  clatter  of  tongues 
would  cease. 

The  people  of  Madrid,  th*  lower  classes,  who 
from  the  mere  fact  of  being  wretched  should  sympa- 
thize with  the  unfortunate,  gathered  in  great  masses 
around  the  house  where  Prince  Henry  lay.  It  was, 
perhaps,  not  so  much  sympathy  as  the  morbid  ap- 
petite for  horrors,  so  common  in  the  Celtic  races. 
It  is  probable  that  many  of  these  beggars  came  full 
of  meat  from  Montpensier's  palace  gate,  to  howl  for 
vengeance  on  him  at  the  modest  door  of  his  dead 
rival. 

Every  means  was  taken  to  make  the  funeral  a 
political  demonstration,  with  indifferent  success. 
Placards  were  posted,  inviting  all  Spaniards  to  come 
and  do  honor  to  a  Spaniard  who  had  died  to  vindi- 
cate the  honor  and  independence  of  his  country. 
On  his  house  a  verse,  equally  deficient  in  reason 
and  rhyme,  was  posted,  importing,  "  Here  lived  a 
Spaniard,  the  only  loyal  Bourbon,  who,  for  teUing 
the  truth,  died  on  the  field  of  honor."  A  great 
crowd  of  idlers  followed  the  Prince  to  his  grave. 
But  the  means  taken  to  attract  the  crowd  kept  away 
the  better  class.  Mr.  Luis  Blanc,  a  man  born  with 
a  predestinate  name,  made  a  little  speech  at  the 
cemetery,  in  wjiich  he  explained  his  presence  there. 


388  CASTILIAN   DAYS. 

by  saying  he  came  to  the  funeral  of  a  Spanish  citi- 
zen slain  by  a  Frenchman. 

If  all  this  excitement  results  in  subjecting  duel- 
ling in  Spain  to  the  severe  judgment  of  the  press 
and  the  impartial  cognizance  of  the  tribunals,  Don 
Enrique  will  have  done  more  good  in  his  death  than 
he  could  have  done  in  life. 


NECESSITY   OF   THE  REPUBLIC.  389 


NECESSITY  OF  THE  EEPUBLIC. 


The  Eevolution  of  September  has  not  made  the 
progress  that  its  sanguine  friends  had  hoped.  The 
victory  was  so  prompt  and  perfect,  from  the  moment 
that  Admiral  Topete  ordered  his  band  to  strike  up 
the  hymn  of  Eiego  on  the  deck  of  the  Zaragoza,  in 
the  bay  of  Cadiz,  to  the  time  when  the  special  train 
from  San  Sebastian  to  Bayonne  crossed  the  French 
frontier  with  Madame  de  Bourbon  and  other  light 
baggage,  that  the  world  looked  naturally  for  very- 
rapid  and  sweeping  work  in  the  open  path  of  re- 
form. The  world  ought  to  have  known  better. 
There  were  too  many  generals  at  the  bridge  of 
Alcolea  to  warrant  any  one  in  expecting  the  po- 
litical millennium  to  follow  immediately  upon  the 
flight  of  the  dishonored  dynasty.  We  must  do  the 
generals  the  justice  to  say  that  they  left  no  one 
long  in  doubt  as  to  their  intentions.  Prim  had  not 
been  a  week  in  Madrid,  when  he  wrote  to  the  editor 
of  the  "Gaulois,"  announcing  the  purpose  of  himself 
and  his  companions  to  establish  in  Spain  a  constitu- 
tional monarchy.  The  fulfilment  of  this  promise 
has  been  thus  far  pursued  with  reasonable  activity 
and  steadiness.    The  Provisional  Government  elected 


390  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

monarcliical  Cortes  and  framed  a  monarchical  Consti- 
tution. They  duly  crushed  the  Eepublican  risings 
in  Cadiz  and  Catalonia,  and  promptly  judged  and 
shot  such  impatient  patriots  as  they  could  find. 
They  have  unofficially  offered  the  crown  of  the 
Spains  to  all  the  unemployed  princes  within  reach 
of  their  diplomacy.  It  is  hard  to  say  what  more 
they  could  have  done  to  establish  their  monarchy. 

Yet  the  monarchy  is  no  more  consolidated  than  it 
was  when  the  triumvirs  laid  their  bald  heads  to- 
gether at  Alcolea  and  agreed  to  find  another  king 
for  Spain.  The  reforms  they  have  incorporated  into 
the  Constitution  have  not  been  enough  to  conciliate 
the  popular  spirit,  naturally  distrustful  of  half- 
measures.  The  government  has  been  forced,  partly 
by  its  own  fault  and  partly  by  the  fatality  of  events, 
into  an  attitude  of  tyranny  and  repression  which 
recalls  the  worst  days  of  the  banished  race.  The 
fine  words  of  the  Revolution  have  proved  too  fine 
for  daily  use. 

The  fullest  individual  rights  are  guaranteed  by 
the  Constitution.  But  at  the  first  civil  uproar  the 
servile  Cortes  gave  them  up  to  the  discretion  of  the 
government.  Law  was  to  be  established  as  the  sole 
rule  and  criterion  of  action.  But  the  most  arbitrary 
and  cruel  sentences  are  written  on  drum-heads  still 
vibrating  with  the  roll  of  battle.  The  death-penalty 
was  to  be  abolished.  But  the  shadow  of  the  gallows 
and  the  smoke  of  the  fusillade  are  spread  over  half 


NECESSITY   OF  THE  REPUBLIC.  391 

of  Spain.  The  army  was  to  be  reduced,  and  the 
government  has  just  asked  the  Cortes  for  eighty- 
thousand  men.  The  colonies  were  to  be  emanci- 
pated ;  and  Porto  Eico  stands  in  the  Cortes  vainly- 
begging  for  reforms,  while  Cuba  seems  bent  upon 
destroying  with  her  own  hands  the  hateful  wealth 
and  beauty  which  so  long  have  lured  and  rewarded 
her  tjrrants. 

Among  the  plans  and  promises  of  the  Eevolution 
was  the  abolition  of  slavery ;  a  few  rounded  periods 
in  condemnation  of  the  system,  from  the  ready  pen 
of  the  Minister  of  Ultramar,  have  recently  appeared 
in  the  Gazette,  and  a  consultative  committee  has 
been  appointed,  but  nothing  reported.  Liberty  of 
thought  and  speech  was  to  be  guaranteed ;  but  four- 
teen journals  were  suppressed  during  the  autumn 
months,  and  all  the  clubs  in  Spain  closed  for  sev- 
eral weeks.  The  freedom  of  the  municipality  was 
a  favorite  and  most  attractive  idea,  universally  ac- 
cepted, —  an  autonomic  state  within  the  state.  But 
great  numbers  of  ayuntamientos,  elected  by  universal 
suffrage,  have  been  turned  out  of  their  town  halls, 
and  their  places  filled  by  swift  servitors  of  the  cap- 
tain-general of  the  district. 

There  was  pressing  need  and  much  talk  of  finan- 
cial reform.  But  the  taxes  are  greater  than  ever ; 
the  debt  is  increased,  and  the  deficit  wider  day  by 
day.  If  a  nation  can  ever  be  bankrupt,  Spain  is 
rapidly  approaching  bankruptcy. 


392  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Unless  the  situation  changes  for  the  better,  the 
Eevolution  of  September  will  pass  into  history 
merely  as  a  mutiny. 

The  state  of  things  which  now  exists  is  intolerable 
in  its  uncertainty,  and  in  the  possibility  which  it 
offers  of  sudden  and  unforeseen  solutions.  With 
the  tardy  restoration  of  individual  guaranties,  the 
political  life  of  the  people  has  begun  anew.  The 
Eepublicans,  as  usual,  form  the  only  party  which 
appeals  to  a  frank  and  public  propaganda.  The 
other  factions,  having  little  or  no  support  in  the 
body  of  the  people,  resort  to  their  traditional  tactics 
of  ruse  and  combination.  The  reaction  has  never 
been  so  busy  as  to-day.  Emissaries  of  the  Bour- 
bons are  flitting  constantly  from  Paris  to  Madrid. 
The  old  partisans  of  Isabel  II.,  who  have  failed  to 
receive  the  rewards  of  treason  from  the  new  gov- 
ernment, are  returning  to  their  first  allegiance.  A 
leading  journal  of  Madrid  supports  the  Prince  of 
Asturias  for  the  throne,  with  a  Montpensier  regency. 
This  is  a  bait  thrown  out  to  the  Union  Liberals, 
who  are  gradually  drifting  away  from  the  late  coa- 
lition. Don  Carlos  is  watching  on  the  border  for 
another  demonstration  in  his  favor,  his  young  wife's 
diamonds  bartered  for  powder  and  lead.  All  the 
ravening  birds  of  the  reaction  are  hovering  over  the 
agonizing  quarry  of  the  commonwealth,  waiting  for 
the  hour  to  strike. 

Of  course,  it  is  not  reasonable  to  expect  that 


NECESSITY   OF  THE   REPUBLIC.  393 

evils  bred  of  centuries  of  misrule  Qan  be  extirpated 
at  onoe.  But  there  is  a  very  serious  question 
whether,  under  the  system  adopted  by  the  leading 
men  of  Spain,  they  can  ever  be  reformed. 

In  all  nations,  the  engine  which  is  most  danger- 
ous to  liberty,  most  destructive  of  national  pros- 
perity, is  the  standing  army.  If  it  were  composed 
of  men  and  officers  exempt  from  human  faults  and 
vices,  inaccessible  to  temptation,  and  incapable  of 
wrong,  it  would  be  at  best  a  collection  of  stingless 
drones,  consumers  that  produce  nothing,  men  in  the 
vigor  of  youth  condemned  to  barren  idleness.  But 
the  army  spirit  of  Spain  is  probably  the  worst  in  the 
world.  In  other  countries  the  army  is  not  much 
worse  than  useless.  It  is  distinguished  by  its  me- 
chanical, automatic  obedience  to  the  law.  It  is  the 
boast  of  the  army  of  France,  for  instance,  that  it 
never  makes  nor  prevents  revolutions.  It  carried 
out  the  coup  d'Stat  of  December,  but  it  was  not  in 
the  conspiracy  that  planned  it.  The  army  received 
orders  regularly  issued  by  the  Minister  of  War,  and 
executed  them.  In  1848  the  army  exchanged  frater- 
nal salutes  with  the  victorious  volunteers ;  but  took 
no  part  in  or  against  the  Smeute,  except  when  bidden. 
But  the  Spanish  army,  from  general  to  corporal,  is 
penetrated  with  the  poison  of  conspiracy.  With 
the  exception  of  the  engineers,  who  still  preserve 
some  spirit  of  discipline,  and  who  caU  themselves 
with  proud  humility  "  The  Lambs,"  there  is  not  a 

13* 


394  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

regiment  in  the  service  that  cannot  be  bought  if 
properly  approached  by  the  proper  men.  The  com- 
mon soldiers  are  honest  enough.  If  turned  loose 
to-morrow,  they  would  go  joyfully  to  their  homes 
and  to  profitable  work.  There  are  many  officers 
who  are  the  soul  of  honor.  There  are  many  who 
would  willingly  die  rather  than  betray  their  com- 
mands. There  are  many  who  have  died  in  recent 
years,  because  they  would  not  be  delivered  after 
they  had  been  sold.  But  they  were  considered 
mad. 

This,  corruption  of  the  army  is  not  confined  to 
any  special  grade.  Of  course,  it  is  easier  to  buy 
one  man  than  many,  so  that  colonels  are  oftener 
approached  than  their  regiments.  But  in  one  of 
General  Prim's  unsuccessful  insurrections,  it  was 
the  sergeants  of  the  artillery  barracks  who  ]pro- 
nounced,  and  cut  the  throats  of  their  officers. 

It  is  from  causes  such  as  this  that  the  Spanish 
army  has  grown  to  be  the  most  anomalous  mili- 
tary establishment  in  the  world.  Every  succes- 
sive minister  has  used  it  for  the  purposes  of  his 
own  personal  ambition,  and  has  left  in  it  a  swarm 
of  superfluous  officers,  who  owe  their  grades  to  per- 
sonal or  political  services,  more  or  less  illegal.  Last 
year  the  Spanish  army  contained  eight  soldiers  to 
one  officer.  Now,  with  the  enormous  number  of 
promotions  the  present  liberal  government  has 
squandered  among  the  supporters  of  General  Prim, 


NECESSITY   OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  395 

the  officers  have  risen  to  the  proportion  oi  one  to 
seven.  Some  two  dozen  promotions  to  the  grade 
of  gene^ral  were  gazetted  after  the  suppression  of 
the  late  Eepublican  insurrection. 

This  is  an  evil  which  goes  on  continually  in- 
creasing. Every  officer  who  is  passed  over  becomes 
a  beggar  or  a  conspirator.  The  fortunate  ones  may 
feel  a  slight  impulse  of  gratitude  while  their  crosses 
are  new  and  their  epaulettes  untarnished.  But  not 
to  advance  is  to  decline,  is  the  soldier's  motto  every- 
where ;  and  if  advancement  lags,  they  listen  to  the 
voice  of  the  opposition  charmer,  charm  he  never  so 
grossly.  The  government  cannot  complain.  The 
line  of  precedents  is  unbroken.  There  is  scarcely  a 
general  in  Spain  but  owes  his  successive  grades  to 
successive  treasons. 

The  government  finds  it  impossible  to  keep  its 
promises  of  the  reduction  of  the  army  and  the 
abolition  of  the  conscription.  The  policy  of  re- 
pression it  has  so  unfortunately  adopted  renders 
necessary  the  maintenance  of  considerable  garrisons 
in  the  principal  towns,  as  long  as  the  question  of 
the  monarchy  is  undecided.  The  re-enforcement  of 
thirty-five  thousand  men  sent  to  sustain  the  bar- 
barous and  useless  conflict  in  Cuba  has  so  weakened 
the  regular  regiments  of  the  Peninsula,  that  the 
sparse  recruits  obtained  by  volunteering  are  utterly 
inadequate  to  the  demand.  So  that  there  hangs 
now   over   every    peasant    family  in    Spain  that 


396  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

shadow  of  blind  terror, — the  conscription;  and 
every  father  is  learning  to  curse  the  government 
that  promised  him  peace  and  liberty,  and  tljreatens 
to  steal  his  boy. 

When  the  government  has  obtained  its  army  of 
two  hundred  thousand  men,  —  for,  counting  the 
Gendarmerie,  the  Carabineers,  and  the  Cuban  army, 
it  will  amount  to  that,  —  it  can  be  used  for  nothing 
but  diplomatic  wars  or  internal  oppression,  and  the 
people  of  Spain  have  had  quite  enough  of  both. 

With  the  provision  of  union  between  Church 
and  State  which  has  been  incorporated  in  the  new 
Constitution,  the  government  has  loaded  itseK  with 
needless  embarrassments.  Instead  of  following  the 
plain  indication  of  popular  sentiment,  which  de- 
manded a  free  church  in  a  free  state,  the  coalition, 
anxious  to  conciliate  the  reaction,  established  the 
Catholic  Church  as  the  religion  of  the  state,  assum- 
ing the  expenses  and  the  government  of  that  com- 
plex and  cumbrous  system.  In  vain  were  all  the 
arguments  of  the  best  jurists  and  most  sensible  men 
in  the  Cortes ;  in  vain  the  living  thunders  of  an 
oratory  such  as  the  world  has  not  known  elsewhere 
in  modem  times.  With  the  exception  of  the  wild 
harangue  of  Suiier  y  Capdevila,  who  blindly  took 
God  to  task  for  the  errors  of  his  pretended  ministers, 
the  liberal  speakers  who  opposed  the  unhallowed 
union  of  Church  and  State  treated  the  question  with 
the  greatest  decency  and  discretion.     Not  only  did 


NECESSITY   OF   THE  REPUBLIC.  397 

they  refrain  from  attacking  religion,  they  respected 
also  the  Church.  After  the  Jesuit  Manterola  had 
concluded  an  elaborate  argument,  which  might  have 
been  made  by  Torquemada,  so  bitter  and  wicked  and 
relentless  was  it  in  its  bigotry,  Castelar  rose,  and  in 
'that  marvellous  improvisation  which  held  the  Cortes 
enchained  for  three  hours,  and  renewed  the  bright 
ideals  of  antique  oratory  which  our  times  had  come 
to  treat  as  fables,  he  did  not  utter  a  word  which 
could  have^  wounded  the  susceptibilities  of  any 
liberal-minded  Catholic.  When  he  concluded,  all 
sections  of  the  Chamber  broke  out  in  loud  and  long 
applause.  Members  of  the  government  crossed  over 
from  the  blue  bench  and  embraced  the  young  orator 
with  tears.  For  an  instant  the  Chamber  seemed 
unanimous,  under  the  spell  of  genius  and  enthusi- 
asm. But  in  another  moment  the  President's  bell 
sounded,  and  the  members  of  the  majority  went 
back  to  their  places,  wiped  their  streaming  eyes, 
and  when  the  vote  was  taken,  tied  Church  and  State 
together. 

The  embarrassments  and  troubles  resulting  from 
this  anomalous  marriage  of  an  absolute  church  with 
a  democratic  government  have  become  evident 
sooner  even  than  any  one  anticipated.  A  large 
number  of  bishops,  and  among  these  the  most 
prominent,  are  in  open  contumacy.  They  treat  the 
orders  of  the  Minister  of  Grace  and  Justice  with 
loud  and  obstreperous  contempt.     They  fomented 


398  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

and  assisted  as  far  as  possible  tlie  Carlist  risings  of 
last  summer.  A  considerable  number  have  left  the 
kingdom,  in  defiance  of  the  order  of  the  Ministry. 
The  engagement  which  the  government  assumed  to 
pay  them  their  salaries  is  the  cause  of  much  of 
this  insolence.  The  treasury  is  empty,  and  the 
clergy  think  they  should  at  least  have  the  privilege 
of  despising  the  government  while  waiting  for  their 

pay. 

It  is  easy  to  see  what  the  state  has  lost,  it  is  hard 
to  see  what  it  has  gained,  by  this  ill-considered 
league  with  the  church. 

The  centralized  administration  of  the  government, 
which  took  its  rise  in  the  early  days  of  the  Bourbon 
domination,  and  has  been  growing  steadily  worse 
ever  since,  is  fatal  to  the  development  of  a  healthy 
political  life.  A  vast  horde  of  office-holders  is 
scattered  over  the  kingdom,  whose  only  object  is  to 
please  their  patrons  at  Madrid.  The  capital  is 
necessarily  filled  with  a  time-serving  population. 
Madrid,  like  Washington,  is  a  capital  and  nothing 
else.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  any  vigorous 
vitality  of  principle  should  exist  in  such  a  town. 
But  the  serious  evil  is,  that  all  Spain  is  made  tributary 
to  the  petty  policy  of  personal  interests  which  rules, 
for  the  time  being,  at  the  capital.  The  government 
being  omnipresent  in  the  provinces,  public  works 
of  the  plainest  utility  are  made  subordinate  to  the 
demands  of  party.     When  a  leading  man  in  a  dis- 


NECESSITY   OF  THE  REPUBLIC.  399 

tant  region  grows  clamorous  as  to  the  wants  of  his 
province,  he  is  quietly  brought  to  Madrid  and  pro- 
vided for.  The  elections,  so  far,  have  been  mere 
mockeries  of  universal  suffrage.  The  numbers  of 
Eepublican  deputies  and  town  councils  is  truly 
wonderful,  in  view  of  the  constant  government 
interference. 

The  ill  effect  of  this  corrupt  and  centralized 
administration  is  seen  in  nothing  more  clearly  than 
in  the  bad  state  of  the  finances.  Enormous  taxes 
are  yearly  imposed ;  with  great  inequality  and  in- 
justice of  distribution,  it  is  true,  but  sufficient  in 
quantity  to  answer  all  the  demands  of  the  state. 
But,  instead  of  collecting  them,  the  revenue  officers 
seem  to  consider  them  legitimate  capital  for  invest- 
ment and  speculation.  The  people,  knowing  this, 
are  worse  than  indifferent,  they  are  absolutely  hos- 
tile, to  the  collection  of  the  imposts.  There  is  a 
continual  selfish  strife  between  them  and  the  tax- 
gatherers,  —  the  one  to  avoid  paying,  the  other  to 
fill  their  own  pockets.  Hence  results  the  constant 
deficit,  the  chronic  marasmus,  of  the  treasury.  The 
nation  is  in  a  financial  phthisis.  It  is  not  nourished 
by  its  revenues. 

These  evils,  and  the  bad  traditions  of  centuries  of 
misffovernment  have  brousrht  the  masses  of  the 
Spanish  people  to  a  condition  of  complete  political 
indifferentism.  This  is  a  condition  most  favorable 
to  the  easy  operation  of  those  schemes  of  cabinet 


400  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

intrigue  and  garrison  conspiracy  which  have  been 
for  so  many  years  the  favorite  machinery  of  Spanish 
politicians.  But  it  is  a  state  of  things  incompatible 
with  that  robust  public  activity  to  which  the  spirit 
of  the  age  now  invites  all  civilized  peoples.  In  the 
opinion  of  all  those  who  believe,  as  we  do,  in  the 
political  progress  of  the  world,  it  is  a  situation  which 
should  not  and  can  not  endure.  It  is,  therefore,  the 
pressing  duty  of  the  hour  for  the  statesmen  of  Spain 
to  decide  upon  the  best  means  of  reforming  it. 

Most  Americans  will  agree  with  those  thoughtful 
liberals  of  the  Peninsula,  who  hold  that  this  ref- 
ormation is  impossible  through  the  monarchy. 

A  king,  brought  in  by  the  existing  coalition, 
would  be  worse  than  powerless  to  abolish  these  old 
abuses.  He  would  need  them  all  to  consolidate  his 
rule  on  the  old  iniquitous  foundations  of  force  and 
selfishness.  He  would  not  dare  dismiss  the  army 
nor  alienate  its  officers.  He  would  flatter  and  buy 
as  of  old.  He  would  fall  into  the  hands  of  the 
greedy  and  imperious  priesthood,  in  spite  of  all 
possible  good  intentions.  He  could  not  deprive 
himself  of  the  support  these  logical  partisans  of 
divine  right  could  give  him  in  every  city  and  ham- 
let of  the  kingdom.  There  would  be  under  his 
reign  no  chance  for  decentralization.  How  could 
he  be  expected  to  strip  himself,  in  the  newness  and 
uncertainty  of  his  tenure  of  power,  of  this  enor- 
mous influence  and  patronage  ? 


NECESSITY   OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  401 

There  is  not  enough  virtue  or  integrity  of  pur- 
pose in  any  of  the  old  parties  of  Spain  to  take 
charge  of  the  monarch  and  lead  him  on  in  the  path 
of  patriotic  reform.  They  would  be  chiefly  busied, 
as  they  are  now,  in  fighting  for  the  spoils  and  watch- 
ing each  other.  The  Moderados  are  worn  out  and 
superannuated.  The  Liberal  Union  is  a  tattered 
harlequin's  coat,  —  nothing  left  of  the  original  stuff. 
The  Progresistas  have  done  good  and  glorious  work 
in  the  past ;  their  leader.  Prim,  has  often  deserved 
well  of  the  commonwealth  ;  but  the  party  has  fallen 
into  complete  decadence,  under  the  baleful  person- 
ality of  its  captain.  He  has  absorbed,  not  only  his 
own  party,  but  also  the  so-called  Democratic,  fusing 
the  two  into  one,  which,  in  these  last  weeks,  has 
begun  to  be  called  the  Eadical  party.  The  Duke 
of  Seville,  wittiest  of  the  Bourbons  since  Henry 
IV.,  said  the  other  day :  "  The  point  where  aU  these 
parties  agree  is, '  the  people  is  an  ass ;  let  us  jump 
on  and  ride':  the  point  where  they  differ  is  the 
color  of  the  saddle." 

So  powerful  has  this  mutual  jealousy  already  be- 
come, that  the  members  of  the  Liberal  Union  have 
withdrawn  from  the  Cabinet,  at  the  first  mention 
of  the  name  of  the  Duke  of  Genoa ;  unwilling  to 
remain  in  the  government  to  assist  in  the  enthrone- 
ment of  a  king  not  brought  forward  by  themselves. 
It  needs  little  sagacity  to  foresee  the  swarm  of 
intrigues  and  cabals  that  would   spring  into   life 


402  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

from  the  moment  when  the  new  and  strange  mon- 
arch took  up  his  abode  in  that  marble  fortress 
of  Philip  V.  The  old  story  would  be  at  once  re- 
newed, with  daily  variations,  of  barrack-plots,  scan- 
dals of  the  back  stairs,  and  treasons  of  the  Cama- 
rilla. The  questions  of  national  policy  would  at 
once  sink  into  the  background,  and  ministers  of 
state  would  again  be  seen  waiting  in  the  antecham- 
bers of  grooms  and  confessors. 

That  these  abuses  and  this  apathetic  condition  of 
the  public  conscience  could  not  coexist  with  the  re- 
public is  undeniable.  The  very  name  is  a  declara- 
tion of  war  against  the  permanent  army,  the  state 
church,  the  centralized  system  of  administration. 
It  is  for  this  very  reason  that  so  many  doubt  if  it 
be  possible  to  found  the  republic  in  Spain.  The 
system  in  possession  is  so  formidable  that  to 
most  observers  it  has  seemed  impregnable.  The 
only  question  asked  in  Spain  and  in  the  world  is, 
not  whether  the  republic  is  needed  there,  but 
whether  it  is  possible.  All  liberal  people  agree  that, 
if  it  could  be  attained,  it  would  be  a  great  and 
beneficent  thing. 

Some  eighty  deputies  and  several  hundred  thou- 
sand voting  men  in  Spain  want  the  republic  to- 
day. They  are  willing  to  work  and  suffer  for  it, 
and  many  have  shown  that  they  counted  it  a  light 
matter  to  die  for  it.  A  large  number  of  journals 
preach  the  republic  every  day  to  a  vast  and  con- 


NECESSITY   OF  THE  REPUBUC.  403 

stantly  widening  circle  of  readers.  The  Eepubli- 
cans,  recently  freed  from  the  crushing  pressure  of 
the  temporary  dictatorship,  have  gone  so  actively  to 
work  that  they  seem  the  only  men  in  Spain  who 
are  interested  in  the  situation.  The  Republican 
minority  in  the  Cortes  is  so  far  superior  to  any 
equal  number  of  the  majority,  in  earnestness  and 
energy,  that  when  they  retired  for  a  few  weeks  from 
the  Chamber,  on  the  suspension  of  individual  guar- 
anties, the  Chamber  seemed  struck  suddenly  by  the 
hand  of  death.  The  benches  of  the  government 
deputies  were  deserted,  the  galleries  were  empty. 
It  was  impossible  to  find  a  quorum  present  on  any 
day  for  the  voting  of  necessary  laws.  But  on  the 
day  the  Republicans  returned  every  member  was  in 
his  seat,  and  the  listless  Madrilenos  waited  for 
hours  in  the  street  to  get  standing-room  in  the  gal- 
leries. Their  bitterest  enemies  seemed  glad  to  see 
them  back.  There  was  an  irresistible  attraction  in 
their  warm  and  frank  enthusiasm. 

To  this  eager  and  earnest  propaganda  the  Mon- 
archists seem  ready  to  oppose  nothing  but  the  old- 
school  politics  of  enigma  and  cabal.  They  content 
themselves  with  saying  the  republic  is  impossible. 
They  never  combat  its  principles.  After  a  masterly 
exposition  of  the  advantages  of  the  republic  and  the 
defects  of  the  monarchy  to  supply  the  pressing  needs 
of  Spain,  a  minister  of  the  government  rises  and 
says  the  people  of  Spain  do  not  want  a  republic,  it 


404  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

will  be  years  before  a  republic  can  be  established  in 
Spain.  If  driven  into  an  argument,  they  usually 
say  no  more  than  that,  if  the  republic  came,  it 
would  not  stay,  and  tli^n  they  point  to  Greece  and 
Eome  and  other  transitory  republics.  It  is  this 
feebleness  of  response  which  is  more  convincing 
than  the  vigor  of  the  attack.  They  say  a  majority 
of  Spaniards  are  not  Eepublicans.  This  is  probably 
true.  A  majority  of  Spaniards  are  indifferent,  and 
vote  with  the  government  for  the  time  being.  But 
the  republic  is  making  a  most  energetic  and  serious 
propaganda.  It  appears,  after  wild  and  useless 
revolt  and  bloodshed,  to  have  settled  down  to  a 
quiet  and  legal  contest  in  the  field  of  polemic  dis- 
cussion. ■  It  is  making  converts  every  day,  and,  by 
the  dynamic  power  that  lies  in  a  live  principle,  every 
man  is  worth  as  much  again  as  a  tepid  advocate  of 
the  monarchy. 

One  reason  of  the  enormous  advantage  which  the 
Republican  orators  possess  in  debate  is,  that  the 
partisans  of  the  monarchy  are  placed  in  a  false  posi- 
tion. They  dare  not  say  in  public  what  they  say 
in  private,  —  that  Spaniards  are  too  ignorant  and 
too  violent  for  a  republic.  They  shrink  instinc- 
tively from  thus  libelling  their  country  and  indi- 
rectly glorifying  the  institution  they  oppose.  This 
is  a  disadvantage  which  weighs  heavily  upon  the  re- 
actionists all  over  the  world.  In  the  old  days,  when 
the  dumb  people  was  taxed  and  worked  at  pleas- 


NECESSITY    OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  405 

ure,  the  supporters  of  tyranny  could  afford  to  argue. 
Even  the  wise  Quesnay  and  the  virtuous  Turgot, 
sustaining  the  social  hierarchy  of  the  days  he- 
fore  1789,  could  call  the  laboring  classes  non-pro- 
ducers, and  say  that  a  bare  subsistence  was  all  a 
workingman  had  any  right  to  expect.  But  it  is  an 
unconscious  admission  of  the  general  growth  of  in- 
telligence in  the  proletariat,  that  no  man  dares  say 
such  things  to-day.  Gracefully  or  awkwardly,  the 
working  classes  are  always  flattered  by  politicians. 
And  if  a  statesman  says  civil  things  to  the  people, 
logic  will  carry  him  into  the  republic. 

It  is  hard  to  deny  that,  if  the  chronic  evils  which 
have  so  long  afflicted  the  life  of  Spain  were  once 
thoroughly  eradicated,  there  are  special  aptitudes  in 
the  Peninsula  for  a  federal  republic.  The  federa- 
tion is  ready  made.  There  is  a  collection  of  states, 
with  sufficiently  distinct  traditions  and  circum- 
stances to  justify  a  full  internal  autonomy,  and 
enough  common  interests  to  unite  them  under  a 
federal  administration.  The  Spaniards  are  not  un- 
fitted by  character  for  the  republican  system.  They 
have  a  certain  natural  personal  dignity  which  as- 
similates them  to  the  strongly  individualized  North- 
ern races,  and  they  possess  in  a  remarkable  degree 
the  Latin  instinct  of  association.  They  are  the  re- 
sult of  three  great  immigrations,  —  the  Celtic,  the 
Eoman,  and  the  Gothic.  The  republic  would  utilize 
the  best  traits  of  all  these  races. 


406  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

They  ought  to  be  an  easy  people  to  govern.  They 
are  sober,  frugal,  industrious,  and  placable.  They 
can  make  their  dinner  of  a  crust  of  bread  and  a 
bunch  of  grapes.  Their  favorite  luxuries  are  fresh 
air  and  sunshine ;  their  commonest  dissipation  is  a 
glass  of  sweetened  water  and  a  guitar.  It  is  not 
reasonable  to  say  that,  if  the  power  was  given  them, 
they  would  use  it  worse  than  the  epauletted  bandits 
who  have  held  it  for  a  century  past. 

Comparisons  drawn  from  the  republics  that  have 
flourished  and  fallen  are  not  altogether  just.  The 
condition  of  the  world  has  greatly  changed.  We 
are  nearing  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  whole  world,  bound  together  in  the  solidarity 
of  aspiration  and  interests  by  a  vast  publicity,  by 
telegraphs  and  railways,  is  moving  forward  along  aU 
the  line  of  nations  to  larger  and  ampler  liberty. 
No  junta  of  prominent  gentlemen  can  come  to- 
gether and  amiably  arrange  a  programme  for  a 
nation,  in  opposition  to  this  universal  tendency. 
It  is  too  much  for  any  one  to  prophesy  what  will  be 
the  final  result  of  this  great  movement.  But  it 
cannot  well  be  checked.  The  people  have  the  right 
to  govern  themselves,  even  if  they  do  it  ill.  If  the 
republics  of  the  present  and  future  are  to  be  tran- 
sient, it  is  sure  that  monarchies  can  make  no  claim 
to  permanence ;  and  the  republics  of  the  past  have 
always  been  marked  by  prodigious  developments  of 
genius  and  activity. 


NECESSITY   OF   THE  REPUBLIC.  407 

It  would  be  idle  to  ignore  the  great  and  serious 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  the  establishment  of  the 
republic  in  Spain.  First  and  gravest  is  the  opposi- 
tion  of  all  the  men  who  have  so  long  made  mer- 
chandise of  the  government,  the  hysterical  denun- 
ciations of  the  alarmed  church,  the  sullen  hostility 
of  the  leading  army  officers,  the  selfish  fears  of  the 
legion  of  office-holders.  Then  there  is  the  appre- 
hension of  feuds  and  dissensions  in  the  Eepublican 
ranks.  The  people  who  have  come  so  newly  into 
possession  of  a  political  existence  are  not  as  steady 
and  wise  as  those  who  have  been  voting  a  century 
or  so.  Always  impatient  and  often  suspicious,  they 
are  too  apt  to  turn  to-day  on  the  idols  of  yesterday 
and  rend  them.  They  are  most  fortunate  in  the  pos- 
session of  such  leaders  as  the  inspired  Castelar,  the 
able  and  blameless  Figueras,  Pi  y  Margall,  Orense, 
and  others.  But  there  is  abeady  a  secret  and 
smouldering  hostility  against  these  irreproachable 
statesmen,  because  they  did  not  take  their  mus- 
kets and  go  out  in  the  mad  and  fatal  insurrection 
of  October.  There  is  an  absurd  and  fantastic  point 
of  honor  prevalent  in  Spain,  which  seems  to  in- 
fluence the  government  and  the  opposition  in  an 
almost  equal  degree.  It  compels  an  aggrieved  party 
to  respond  to  a  real  or  imagined  injury  by  some 
means  outside  of  the  law.  Thus,  when  the  Secre- 
tary of  Tarragona  was  trampled  to  death  by  a  mob, 
the  government,  instead  of  punishing  the  perpetra- 


408  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

tors,  disarmed  the  militia  of  that  and  several  ad- 
jacent towns.  The  militia  of  Barcelona  illegally 
protested.  They  were,  fo^^  this  offence,  illegally  dis- 
armed. They  flew  to  the  barricades,  refused  to 
parley,  and  the  insurrection  burst  out  over  half  of 
Spain.  There  was  not  a  step  taken  by  either  side 
that  was  not  glaringly  in  conflict  with  the  law  of 
the  land.  Yet  all  this  seems  perfectly  natural  to 
the  average  Spaniard ;  and  we  suppose  if  the  gov- 
ernment had  availed  itself,  in  the  circumstances,  of 
the  ample  provisions  of  the  law,  it  w^ould  have 
fallen  into  contempt  among  its  partisans,  much  as  a 
gentleman  in  Arkansas  would  suffer  among  his 
high-toned  friends,  if  he  should  prosecute  a  tres- 
passer instead  of  shooting  him.  This  destructive 
fantasy  the  best  Eepublicans  are  laboring  to  eradi- 
cate from  their  party,  while  they  inculcate  the  most 
religious  obedience  to  the  law.  The  Eepublican 
deputies  say,  in  their  manifesto  of  the  24th  of 
November,  1869,  a  paper  full  of  the  purest  and  most 
faultless  democracy,  — 

"  Let  us  continue  in  the  committees,  at  the  polls, 
in  the  clubs,  and  everywhere,  the  education  of  the 
people.  Let  us  show  them  that  they  have  no  right 
to  be  oppressors,  because  they  have  been  oppressed ; 
that  they  have  no  right  to  be  tyrants,  because  they 
have  been  slaves  ;  that  their  advent  is  the  ruin  of 
kings  and  executioners  ;  that  the  terror  preached  in 
the  name  of  the  people  can  only  serve  the  people's 


NECESSITY   OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  409 

enemies ;  that  a  drop  of  blood  blots  the  immortal 
splendor  of  our  ideas ;  and  that  the  triumph  of  the 
people  is  the  triumph  of  tjustice,  of  equal  right  for 
all." 

If,  as  we  admit,  the  establishment  of  the  repub- 
lic will  be  attended  with  very  serious  embarrass- 
ments, it  seems,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  foun- 
dation of  any  permanent  dynasty  in  the  present 
situation  is  little  short  of  impossible.  The  year  and 
a  half  that  has  elapsed  since  the  cry  of  "  Uspana 
con  Honra "  resounded  in  the  harbor  of  Cadiz  has 
been  wellnigh  fatal  to  monarchy  in  Spain.  The 
people  have  been  long  accustomed  to  revolutions ; 
it  is  dangerous  to  let  them  learn  they  can  do  with- 
out kings.  If  the  Duke  of  Montpensier  had  been 
at  Alcolea,  the  army  would  have  acclaimed  him 
king  within  an  hour  after  the  faU  of  Novaliches. 
Even  later,  with  moderate  haste,  he  could  have 
joined  the  army  and  made  his  terms  with  Prim, 
Serrano,  and  Topete,  parting  the  vestments  of  the 
state  among  them,  and  entering  Madrid  in  the  blaze 
of  enthusiasm  that  surrounded  the  liberating  trium- 
virs. But  soon  the  conflict  of  interests  began.  The 
Eepublican  party  was  born  struggling,  and  received 
its  double  baptism  of  blood.  The  sorely  perplexed 
Provisional  Government  took  refuge  in  procrastina- 
tion, and  the  interregnum  came  in  officially.  For  a 
year  the  proudest  nation  on  earth  has  been  begging 
a  king  in  half  the  royal  antechambers  and  nurseries 

18 


410  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

of  Europe.  A  Spanish  satirist  has  drawn  a  carica- 
ture of  a  circle  of  princely  youths  standing  before 
a.  vacant  throne  over  which  hangs  the  sword  of 
Damocles.  His  Excellency  Mr.  Olozaga  begs  them 
to  be  seated.  But  the  shy  strangers  excuse  them- 
selves. "  It  is  very  pretty,  but  we  don't  like  the 
upholstery."  The  citizen  Benito  Juarez  has  taught 
even  the  unteachable. 

If  it  were  simply  the  coyness  of  princes  that 
was  to  be  overcome,  the  matter  would  not  be  so 
grave.  There  is  no  doubt  that  General  Prim's 
government  can  at  any  time  command  a  formal 
majority  in  the  present  Cortes  for  any  one  whom  he 
may  designate;  and  princes  can  always  be  found 
who  would  not  require  much  violence  to  seat  them 
on  the  throne  of  St.  Ferdinand.  There  is  always 
Montpensier,  infinitely  better  than  any  one  else  yet 
named.  But  the  truth  is,  that  a  profound  impres- 
sion is  becoming  manifest  in  Spain  that  a  king  is 
not  needed ;  that,  in  fact,  there  is  something  gro- 
tesque in  the  idea  of  a  great  nation  deliberately 
making  itself  a  king,  as  a  girl  makes  herself  a  baby 
of  a  rag  and  a  ribbon.  A  dynasty  is  a  thing  of 
mystery  and  tradition,  glorious  and  venerable,  not 
for  itself,  but  for  its  associations  and  its  final  con- 
nection with  a  shadowy  and  worshipful  past.  It 
requires  a  robust  faith  to  accept  it  in  our  levelling 
days  with  aU  these  adjuncts ;  but  it  is  too  absurd 
to  think  of  two  or  three  middle-aged  gentlemen 


NECESSITY   OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  411 

concocting  in  cold  blood  this  thing  of  myth  and 
glamour,  under  the  cruel  eyes  of  the  nineteenth 
century ! 

Monarchy  is  dying  in  Spain,  —  which  is  as  if 
one  should  say  that  Islamism  was  dying  in  Mecca. 
Nowhere  in  the  world  has  monarchy  sustained  so 
great  a  rdle,  and  nowhere  has  it  played  out  its  part 
so  completely  to  the  falling  of  the  curtain.  The 
old  race  of  kings,  Gothic,  Asturian,  and  Castilian, 
made  a  great  nation,  in  the  slow  accretion  of  cen- 
turies, out  of  strange  and  warring  provinces.  In 
those  ages  of  the  conquerors  it  was  natural  that  full 
worship  and  authority  should  be  concentrated  upon 
the  person  of  the  king  and  leader.  It  was  a  hard, 
sterile,  and  destructive  policy  that  formed  the  mod- 
ern kingdom  of  Spain.  In  its  fierce  and  blind 
bigotry  it  sacrificed  the  material  prosperity  of  the 
country  at  the  demand  of  a  savage  superstition. 
Immediately  after  the  fall  of  Granada,  it  expelled 
the  Jews,  and  with  them  banished  from  Spain  the 
spirit  of  commercial  enterprise,  and  deprived  the 
nation  of  the  glory  of  the  names  of  Disraeli,  Spi- 
noza, and  Manin,  descendants  of  these  quickwitted 
exiles.  In  a  subsequent  reign  the  same  spirit  drove 
out  the  Moors,  and  thus  annihilated  all  scientific  and 
progressive  agriculture.  The  banks  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir avenge  every  year  with  fever  and  pestilence 
the  wrongs  of  that  industrious  race  who  could  turn 
those  marshy  flats  into  an  Oriental  garden. 


412  CASTILIAN  DAYS. 

Bad  as  was  the  genius  of  the  old  houses  of  Castile 
and  Arragon,  a  worse  entered  the  monarchy  with 
Charles  V.  and  his  family.  He  brought  into  the 
Spains  the  shadow  of  the  Germanic  tyranny,  where 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  powers  were  more  firmly 
welded  together  into  an  absolute  despotism  over 
body  and  soul.  The  mind  of  Spain  was  paralyzed 
by  the  steady  contemplation  of  two  awful  and  un- 
questionable divinities,  —  the  god  of  this  world,  the 
king  for  the  time  being,  and  the  God  of  the  priests, 
as  like  the  earthly  one  as  possible. 

Then  came  the  princes  of  th^t  family  whose 
mission  seems  to  be  to  carry  to  their  uttermost 
result  the  inherent  faults  of  kingship,  and  so  destroy 
the  prestige  of  thrones.  Philip  V.,  first  of  the 
Spanish  Bourbons,  came  down  from  the  Court  of 
Louis  XIV.  with  all  the  pride  and  luxury  and 
meanness  of  le  Roi  Soleil,  fully  permeated  with 
that  absurd  maxim  of  royal  fatuity,  "  En  France,  la 
nation  ne  fait  pas  corps.  Z'£Jtat,  —  c'est  le  Boi  ! " 
This  was  the  family  that  finished  monarchy  in  Spain, 
by  making  everything  subsidiary  to  the  vulgar 
splendor  of  the  court.  It  made  way  with  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  in  vast  palaces  and  pleasure-grounds. 
It  corrupted  and  ruined  half  the  aristocracy  in  the 
senseless  follies  and  orgies  of  the  capital.  Yet  it 
was  not  a  cheerful  or  jolly  court.  The  kings  were 
rickety,  hypochondriac,  epileptic,  subject  to  frightful 
attacks  of  gloom  and  bilious  piety.     The  Church 


NECESSITY   OF   THE   REPUBLIC.  413 

naturally  profited  by  this  to  extend  its  material  and 
spiritual  domains.  It  revelled  in  mortmains  and 
inquisitions. 

We  must  do  the  Bourbons  the  justice  to  say  that, 
when  they  go  seriously  to  work  to  destroy  a  throne, 
they  do  it  very  thoroughly  and  with  reasonable 
promptness.  The'  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Louis 
managed  in  their  two  reigns  to  overturn  the  mon- 
archy of  Clovis.  The  Spanish  Bourbons  in  a  cen- 
tury, besides  the  small  thrones  they  have  ruined  in 
Italy,  have  utterly  destroyed  the  prestige  of  the 
crown  in  Spain.  That  the  phantom  of  divine  right 
has  utterly  vanished  from  this  country,  where  it 
was  once  a  living  reality,  seems  too  evident  for  dis- 
cussion. This  appears  in  the  daily  utterances  of  the 
press,  in  the  common  speech  of  men,  in  the  open 
debates  of  the  Cortes.  In  the  land  where  once  the 
king's  name  was  not  mentioned  but  with  uncovered 
head  and  a  reverent  Que  Dios  guarde  !  where  liberty 
and  property  only  existed  by  his  gracious  sufferance, 
the  Minister  of  Finance  talks  of  prosecuting  the 
queen  for  overdrawing  her  bank  account  and  stealing 
the  jewels  of  the  Crowii.  The  loyal  faith  and  wor- 
ship, which  from  the  Visigoths  to  the  Bourbons  was 
twelve  centuries  in  growing,  has  disappeared  in  a 
lifetime,  driven  away  by  the  analytical  spirit  of  the 
age,  aided  by  the  journalism  of  the  period  and  the 
eccentricities  of  Dona  Isabel. 

The  absolute  monarchy  is  clearly  impossible  ;  the 


414  CASTILIAN   DAYS.     , 

constitutional  monarchy  is  a  compromise  with  tradi- 
tion unworthy  of  the  time,  and  useless  in  the 
attitude  of  free  choice  where  Spain  now  stands. 
No  decision  will  bring  immediate  peace  and  pros- 
perity to  a  country  so  long  and  systematically  mis- 
ruled. But  the  only  logical,  solution,  and  the  one 
which  offers  most  possibilities  of 'safety  and  perma- 
nence, is  the  Kepublic. 

Madeid,  January,  1870. 


THE    END. 


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